Magic Knows No Boundaries
by celillia
Summary: A continuation of cosette-aimee's: an 19 year-old Harry got transferred to an alternative universe where Voldemort was still in power.
1. Magic Knows No Boundaries

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, but then again, I am sure everyone knows that.

NOTE: This story was originally written bycosette-aimee, who has kindly allowed me to continue her story, so please do not send me flames or negative reviews accusing me of taking someone else's work without asking. Also, feel free to correct any grammar mistakes I might make since this is my first fanfiction. The first eight chapters are all purely cosette-aimee's style. Enjoy.

**Alternate Universe.**

Chapter 1.

"Urgh, my _head_!" moaned Harry, screwing up his eyes in pain against the sunlight. "What happened last night?"

As far as he could recall he had practised his Wronkski Feint move, then retired calmly to bed; nothing warranting a hangover that felt as if he had drunk the entire contents of a wine cellar.

Blinking, he opened his over-sensitive eyes, wincing at the bright light that assaulted him.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, gazing around in consternation.

He was lying in a field surrounded by grazing cows, and he had absolutely no recollection of getting there or even seeing the place before.

Instinctively he opened his senses, searching for ill intent or danger, but found nothing except a rather angry bull who was debating the merits of trampling him.

Quickly so as to avoid any ensuing unpleasantness, Harry apparated to Diagon Alley. Arriving, he was hit with a wave of dizziness and swayed on the spot.

"Merlin's teeth, what's wrong with me," he complained, silently swearing not to touch any alcohol for months. Deciding that some food might make him feel better, Harry wandered over to Florean Fortesque's, rummaging in his robes for some galleons, which he luckily found.

He had just held up a handful of coins triumphantly when he caught sight of the shop, which was boarded up.

'Huh, strange,' thought Harry, and for the first time looked around the street properly. There were very few people to be seen, but then it could be attributed to the early hour, Harry reasoned.

'But then why do they look so nervous,' pointed out an annoying voice in the back of his head. It was true, the few witches or wizards in the alley were scurrying around in small groups, but there was no laughter or chatter; people did not stop to exchange greetings.

Harry felt a cold shudder run down his spine. The behaviour reminded him strongly of when Voldemort returned to power, but Voldemort was dead, had been for over a year.

What had happened while he slept?

Seeing a stall selling newspapers, Harry bought a copy of the Daily Prophet and glanced at the front page.

The Headlines "The Ministry's new Measures" and "Assassination of Amelia Bones Averted," leapt out at him.

'But she's already dead,' said Harry blankly. Flicking through the pages Harry's eyes caught the words "You-Know-Who", "Deatheaters," "Many dead" and "Child of Prophecy."

"What?" Harry frowned again. Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, those names were familiar to him, but "Child of Prophecy" was a new one.

Looking closer Harry read,

"During last night's scenes of terror at the Ministry of Magic, a large group of Deatheaters attacked a Press Conference hosting our Saviour, Neville Longbottom. Mr Longbottom, also known as the 'Child of Prophecy', fought valiantly, and is unharmed…"

Harry's mind closed down in denial.

Neville the Chosen One? Voldemort still in operation?

'What is going on,' Harry screamed inside his head.

"Ok, calm, I just have to stay calm," breathed Harry, attempting to delude himself into thinking that he was not hyperventilating in panic. Forcing himself to think rationally, he ran through all the possible explanations for his situation, and came to the conclusion that either he was insane, or else everyone else was.

"I'm not crazy, am I?" thought Harry rather helplessly. "I _feel_ sane."

Then he paused, something stirring in the depths of his memory. He had read something, hadn't he? When he was studying in the restricted section…

'An obscure theory exists where multiple, alternate Universes are possible. These worlds supposedly split off when a major historical event takes place, creating a world similar but still substantially different from the one it originated from. It is unknown how many such worlds exist, or even if the theory is valid, but Wilbert Hunt insists…"

Harry remembered casting the book aside at that point to continue searching for information on the Theory of Raw Magic.

"Could I be in a different world, another Universe?" wondered Harry. It was the only vaguely reasonable explanation he could think up. Shaking his head, Harry wandered down the street, examining the buildings and people he passed. Everything was dull and dilapidated, beggars and grubby, half starved children lurked on shop corners and buildings were bordered up. He had to exercise great self-control when he saw not only ruins where once there were shops, but also people that his mind insisted were dead walking around oblivious to the fact that they were supposed to be deceased. Seeing Stan Shunpike, a man Harry had personally witnessed being tortured to death, arguing over the price of some potions ingredients was, to put it lightly, a shock.

"Magic knows no boundaries except those we believe in," quoted Harry with a wry smile. "This definitely proves that theory."

Gaining some curious and fearful looks from passers-by, Harry soon realised that he was being quite conspicuous, so he sat down at the only café open, ordering a coffee.

So the current facts were that he was in an alternate universe with no idea how he got there, and therefore no idea how to get back. Did he even exist in this world? Neville, poor clumsy Neville, was acclaimed as the Child of Prophecy, did that mean Voldemort had attacked the Longbottom's home that Halloween night? Was that the 'major event' required to create a new world?

Suddenly struck by a horrible thought, Harry grabbed the newspaper again. "Am I even in the same timeline?" Harry looked at the date only to swear loudly. "Now I know for certain," thought Harry bitterly. "Fate's a bitch." Not only was he in another freakin' dimension, but he was also four years in the past! How much more messed up could it get?

Leaning back in his chair, Harry felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. "I feel as if I've trampled by a rampaging hippogriff," groaned Harry. Closing his eyes he reached out to his magical core so as to enervate himself, only to find that it was almost completely depleted. Where once was a power so concentrated that it could cause an explosion to consume the entirety of London, there was now only a faint echo. Holding out his hand palm upwards, Harry muttered a simple fire spell.

Nothing happened.

He had only once before been so weak; after duelling and finally killing Voldemort.

Knowing he had to rest in order to rebuild his core, Harry struggled to his feet. He forced himself to stagger to the Leaky Cauldron and get a key from the suspicious innkeeper, before collapsing onto a bed, dead to the world.


	2. New World and Headaches

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Do I have to do this for every chapter?

Chapter 2.

Harry awoke to bright sunlight and the unendurable pangs of hunger.

Temporarily ignoring the flood of memories that he would much rather forget Harry tentatively reached out to his core. He grinned in relief when he felt that it was completely rebuilt, if not slightly stronger than before.

Getting up, he grabbed his clothes and made his way to the bathroom. After a long shower, he made his way downstairs.

"Anythin' I can get for you, sir?" asked the innkeeper, looking up from where he was polishing glasses.

"Yes please, Tom. Cereal, bread, eggs and bacon, and a cup of coffee."

"Sorry, sir, but there's no more bacon in the whole of London. Another thing to add to the list."

Harry stared in astonishment. Was the war really that bad, that they did not even have enough food to eat?

"What about in the muggle world?" he asked, still incredulous.

"You're not from around here, I take it," said the innkeeper dryly, finally putting down his rag of a towel.

"I've been out of the country for years," Harry lied smoothly. "My family evacuated."

Tom nodded sagely. "Aye, a good few have been doing that, and maybe it's the right idea. But as for your question, well, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has blocked off all imports and exports into this damn country. We are self-sustaining when it comes to basic food staples, but anything from the continent or abroad… well, it's nigh impossible to get your hands on 'em. The Muggles believe there's been a drought that's destroyed crops the world over. The Ministry fed 'em a load of lies, and are forced to use memory charms left and right, 'cause the Muggles are smart enough to realise something's fishy."

"Oh," said Harry inarticulately, his mind whirling. "Well, whatever you have then, but make it a lot. I haven't eaten in over a day, what with travelling and everything."

"Right you are, sir, right this way."

Sitting down to his plain but large breakfast, Harry could no longer avoid confronting the unbelievable situation he found himself in. Again, all he had were questions with no answers.

Were his parents alive in this new world? Or had Neville and Harry's roles been completely reversed, meaning that they were lying in Saint Mungo's completely insane? And were Ron, Hermione and Neville best friends now that he was the Child of Prophecy? Were Ron and Hermione even alive?

After Harry had defeated Voldemort and left school, he and his two friends had drifted apart slightly. The war and growing up had changed them, and they were no longer the 'Golden Trio'. Hermione went to a wizarding University in Paris, Ron, because of his poor marks, helped the twins at their joke shop, and Harry was accepted into the Silver Arrows and played Quidditch for England. In the process he had shocked many people who had thought he would become an Auror, but he had had enough of fighting. He wanted to enjoy himself, and in his new life he had got his wish. Becoming an Auror was an option he had immediately dismissed.

Flying was a passion, fighting a necessity.

However; Harry also had another obsession. Raw Magic. It was in his seventh year that he had found his core and had immersed himself in it. Harry had discovered something that had alluded even the greatest of wizards; magic was, at least partially, sentient.

He had spent hours just playing with it, basking in the feeling of pure energy enveloping his body.

When his wand was destroyed it barely fazed him. He did things with magic that had never been seen before, and a wand only slowed him down.

He loved magic, and magic loved him.

Only one other wizard with equal power would potentially have been able to connect with his own magic in such a way. However, Harry ensured that Voldemort never gained any knowledge on the subject. It was definitely the 'power the Dark Lord knows not.'

After Voldemort's downfall, Harry had been content to play Quidditch, chat with his friends, and explore his new power. He had had peace, and freedom. He had been happy. Now he'd been dumped in an Alternate Reality where Voldemort was still on the loose, and Harry was confused and pissed off.

Deciding to find answers to some of his questions, Harry went back up to his room. He knew what he was planning was draining and potentially dangerous, but if there was one the Harry Potter hated, it was not knowing what was going on. Lying on his bed he used occlumency to fall into a light trance, delving into his core. After gathering his power, he slowly began stretching his magic further and further into his surroundings and the past. First all he saw was another wizard sleeping in the next room, and Tom making a cup of tea in the kitchen. Then he saw himself walk downstairs and ask for breakfast.

But the next images were much less peaceful.

Screams as Deatheaters killed thousands.

_"We are on the brink of collapse."_

A young clumsy boy placing a hat on his head. _"Gryffindor!"_

_"Hogwarts is the last true haven."_

Voldemort laughing as he tortured a man writhing at his feet. Peter Pettigrew.

Dumbledore sitting alone in his office, his head in his hands.

_"I regret to inform you that eight more of our members have fallen."_

James, Sirius and Remus crying, then raising their glasses. _"To Peter Pettigrew, may he rest in peace."_

Alice and Frank Longbottom clutching each other. _"You are in danger."_

Lily Potter crying in a hospital bed, James at her side. _"Stillborn." "I apologise for your loss."_

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches."_

The images came faster and faster, blurring together. With a gasp, Harry wrenched his magic back before he lost control.

Exhausted, he lay still, processing the moments in time that he had seen. He realised two things. 1. That the 'major event' that caused the creation of this new world was that Harry James Potter was never born and the Potters never betrayed. 2. That without thirteen years of peace allowing people to recuperate, the world was screwed. Voldemort was close to achieving his ambition of ruling the whole of Britain.

Both of these thoughts were quite disturbing, but what had caught his attention most was the smooth and scarless forehead of one Neville Longbottom.

Lily and James Potter were childless, and there was no 'boy-who-lived.' Voldemort had never attacked, and a lightning shaped scar meant nothing.

The prophecy still existed, but Voldemort had obviously decided to see how things evolved, not attacking the Longbottoms until Neville's true powers were revealed. "The power the Dark Lord knows not."

It was all just so _weird_, decided Harry. Completely messed up, and also depressing. The number of deaths far exceeded that of Harry's world. Two huge attacks on the Ministry of Magic had almost toppled the government. People were in disarray, and it was all anyone could do to uphold an effective defensive.

"But they have their saviour," argued Harry to himself. "Neville will eventually kill Voldemort with no help from me, and everything will be ok."

But Neville never survived the killing curse. He was never marked, and was not Tom Riddle's equal. But Harry determinedly forced these thoughts into the back of his mind. "It doesn't matter," he reassured himself. "Neville will save everyone, and I'll concentrate on getting home."

That was one thing Harry was clear on; he had to go home. Home to a world where peace reigned; where, after much campaigning from Hermione, all beings had been given equal rights at least under the eyes of the law; where most people were alive, and where Harry was happy.

Harry was pretty certain it was manageable, but he first needed to properly understand the 'multiple worlds' theory. Unfortunately, his only lead was at Hogwarts, where it was impossible to just waltz straight in. If it were anything like Harry had experienced during the last war, then the security of the wizarding world would be verging on paranoia. Already after his brief existence in this world he could see Dark Detectors and Aurors were everywhere, though Harry wondered cynically how many were spies for Voldemort.

For the moment though, Harry was content to read through newspapers and browse bookstores to thoroughly understand the politics and laws of this different England. He had learnt since he was younger that running into a situation without sufficient knowledge was a supremely stupid idea.

Unfortunately, a couple of days of inconspicuously strolling around the alley had lead to a new problem. With no new food or material coming into the country, prices were incredibly high and he was running out of money, and fast. Balking at the idea of stealing from the poor and gaunt figures surrounding him, and as anyone rich was followed by silent bodyguards, Harry reluctantly came to the conclusion that he would have to approach Gringotts. In his old world, Harry had been somewhat fond of the goblins, as they were intelligent, despised the ministry, and you knew where you stood with them. However, while the Ministry of Magic that Harry was familiar with was corrupt and incompetent, this new one was even worse. Instead of dithering and squabbling over pointless subjects and never getting anything done at all, the present Ministry did actually pass laws left and right, but it was anyone's guess if the Minister meant to aid or hinder the Dark Lord's rise. Harsher measures had been introduced for apprehending and punishing suspected Deatheaters, and Aurors had been given almost total freedom in raids. However, being a Vampire was now punishable by law, and Werewolves had all but been exiled from Britain. Other magical beings had also been targeted, their rights curtailed to a previously unthinkable degree. This of course had the happy consequence of enraging all non-human races, most of whom had either gone dark, or had retreated from Britain completely, preferring the more tolerant countries in northern Europe.

Harry wondered if all wizards were suicidal, or if it was just a requisite for the ones in high office.

He purposefully transfigured his clothes into expensive and exquisitely tailored robes, before heading towards the imposing bank. Respect in the magical community, Harry knew, was based on wealth and purity of blood. Harry might not at the moment have either, but he at least looked like he had both.

As he stepped through the arched doors of the bank Harry stumbled at the sudden influx of magic. It was almost like walking through a wall of water. Goblin and human spells were woven together so skilfully as to create wards stronger than even those surrounding Hogwarts. As he passed through them Harry felt completely exposed, the magic testing his strength and intentions as well as preventing the use of any travel or offensive magic. Harry was fascinated by them since back in his own world Gringotts had never been so heavily warded, but by the suspicious glares of the goblin guards stationed around the main hall Harry doubted that he would be allowed to study them. Instead he had to content himself with a cursory inspection as he passed through them.

He easily identified the routine wards such as anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards, as well as some of the goblin-crafted magic. In his old world the goblins had been hired to ward all public buildings as well as some private homes, since they specialised in defensive magic. Hermione had eagerly studied them and then related all her findings to Harry and Ron, who had listened in amused exasperation. While not having a wide understanding of warding magic, Harry knew the basics, as it was impossible to not pick up some of the subject that his best friend was so interested in. Due to her lectures on the topic, Harry could guess the purpose of most of the wards, although some he was certain he had never encountered before. They had probably not been invented in Harry's much more peaceful world.

Sighing at the memory of his friends and the reminder of the current war, Harry joined a line of wizards and witches waiting to be led to their vaults. No one spoke as they waited in line. Elegantly dressed purebloods stood with arrogant unconcern on their faces, occasionally sneering at the evidently poorer wizards and witches around them. Many of these shifted nervously from one foot to another, pulling at threads from their worn robes and clutching their rather empty money-bags. Harry could see no one in muggle attire, when usually there would be a crowd of muggleborn students and their parents exchanging money on the left side of the hall. Harry hoped that they simply wore robes to appear less of a target, rather than the more violent explanation that they had been murdered by Deatheaters.

Compared to the busy hall Harry remembered, the queues were fairly short, and he was soon face to face with a sneering goblin.

"Key," demanded the goblin peremptorily. Wonderful service, Harry thought sardonically. Though he supposed if he spent all day serving people who only seemed to care about how many rebellions his people had incited, he'd be a tad disgruntled, too.

"I don't have one at present," replied Harry easily. "It is that fact which I am here to remedy. I wish to claim my inheritance."

"See the Head of Inheritance, third floor," said the disdainful goblin, barely glancing in Harry's direction. "Next."

"Thank you," murmured Harry, before sweeping up the stairs to the left, suspiciously eyed by goblin guards. The halls he walked through were as magnificently decorated as ever, making Harry smile. At least that had not changed. He soon reached the specified office, and after knocking, entered.

An older, more elaborately dressed Goblin was sitting at a desk covered with parchment.

"Greetings," said Harry, politely bowing. "May Gold grow from your labour."

The goblin's expression of surprise was quickly hidden.

"Greetings," he nodded, returning the traditional salutation. "May your labour yield you gold."

Harry was willing to bet that a human hadn't used that form of address in years.

"Please, sit," said the goblin, gesturing to the seat on the other side of his desk. "My name is Igknots, son of Smerilgrip."

"I am Hadrian Evans," returned Harry, taking the proffered chair. "I wish to undergo the Inheritance Ritual." It was polite to go straight to the point. Time equals money, and goblin society revolved around gold.

"Very well." Igknots reached into a drawer and pulled out a sliver instrument that curved downward before ending at a sharp point that could only be described as a metallic quill. Clean parchment rested underneath. "A sample of blood is required."

This was the sole reason why the procedure was labelled as a ritual. In practise it was rather simple and mundane.

Harry held out his hand, subtly manipulating the magic in his veins. He did not wish his true identity to be known. Harry still did not know whether his parents were alive or not, having been unable to find any reference to them in newspapers, and unwilling to arouse suspicion by asking someone about them. If James Potter was alive, then Harry would inherit nothing from his father's side of the family. If he was dead, then Harry would be recognised as the heir of the Potter Family. While Harry desperately wanted to find out if he had a family in this world or not, he could not risk the awkward questions which would certainly ensue at the appearance of a previously unknown Potter. Instead, Harry decided he would only allow his mother's inheritance to appear. Having undergone this ritual once before, he knew that Lily Potter née Evans came from a line of squibs that were descended from a family of wizards. Since the position of Head of a Family required magic and given the patriarchal nature of the older family lines, squibs and women were unable to inherit, therefore enabling Harry to gain the title even if his mother still lived.

Igknots pierced one finger and let seven drops of blood fall into the device. The quill began to move, and moments later Igknots handed the sheet over to him.

**Hadrian Mikhail Evans**

**Morrigan Estate……….. designated by Lord Nathaniel Gryer Morrigan of the Noble House of Morrigan, 1897**

**Wentforth Family……….designated by Eloise Harriet Wentworth, 1980**

Harry smiled wryly. In his own world, there had been more names, but there was still one written on the parchment he held in his hands that he did not expect. The name Wentworth was one Harry barely recognised, but surmised that it was just another family that had died while their counterparts in his old world lived.

"Quite impressive," allowed the Goblin. "Do you wish me to give you a brief overview of your inherited estates?"

"If you would be so kind," nodded Harry, leaning back in his chair. Igknots rose and opened the door of his spacious office. After barking out some orders in Gobbledegook he returned.

"The two Families are old and well respected, and one of them belongs to the Fourteen Families. It was thought that no heir existed for either of these estates; therefore their finances have been dormant until present. The Ministry attempted to seize both the Morrigan and Wentworth assets, but fortunately failed. Only designated Heirs may enter the vaults, and the property remained unplottable even after the last holder's death."

Harry fumed silently. The ministry was always trying to steal that which did not belong to them. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and Igknot's speech. A surly looking goblin entered, carrying a small stack of folders and parchment, which he deposited on the desk before wordlessly leaving.

"Ah, good," said Igknots, picking up the top folder. "These folders contain all the necessary information on your inheritance. The Morrigan Estate may traditionally only be held by a male heir which barred inheritance from the late Lord Morrigan's daughter and granddaughter. The line then ended with a squib who married into the muggle world, and the title was thought to have been lost. However, it seems the magic has resurfaced, allowing you, as a wizard and a direct descendent, to be the designated heir.

Since the Estate has been dormant for over a century, it does not have any shares in any modern companies, but it is moderately wealthy, owning considerable property and a vault containing over 4,600,000 galleons.

As Head of the House of Morrigan you are entitled to a seat on the Wizengamot as well as a place on the Hogwarts board of Governors, as stipulated by Lord Reginald Morrigan's associate, Rowena Ravenclaw in 967 AD. The Head of the House of Morrigan receives the title of Lord Morrigan, although, due to the defeat of the monarchy in 1827, it is purely a decorative title.

"The Wentforth family was decimated at the start of this current war. As the Heir of Morrigan you are the nearest relation. I believe the late Mrs Wentworth's great-great-grandmother married the second cousin of your great-great-uncle."

Harry tried to think out what relationship that would actually be, but soon gave up. Igknots continued.

"The Estate consists of a Gringotts vault containing 600 000 galleons, a manor and a summer cottage. Wentforth owns shares in many leading companies in both the muggle and magical world. In magical England, the most notable are the Daily Prophet and Madame Olina's Healer Supplies. The Inheritance entitles you to a hereditary seat among the full session of the Wizengamot, as well as a place on the boards of both magical and muggle firms. For a full account please refer to the listing under 'Investments.'"

Harry accepted the proffered folders.

"It is important to note, however, that due to the exponential inflation rates of the past two decades the actual worth of your vaults has decreased considerably. What was once a small fortune in gold is now sufficient for only a few years of comfortable living. Your wealth lies primarily in property and shares in companies.

"Thank you for explaining so thoroughly," said Harry politely.

"Not at all, sir," replied the Goblin in an equally polite tone. "Do you wish for me to designate an employee of the bank to manage your finances, or do you not require our assistance?"

Harry thought for a moment, and then decided that he would have neither the time nor the inclination to supervise everything himself.

"A financial manager would be best for the present, I think."

After discussing wages, interest rates and the use of a card for withdrawals, they came to an agreement.

"Very well, I will instruct Smicklehook in what is required. If you could just sign here, here and…here, to officially accept the inherited Estates. Thank you, sir."

Harry stood up and bowed formally. "May Gold flow until our next meeting."

"May Gold flow," echoed Igknots, also bowing.


	3. NEWT Exams

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. This is getting really old, really fast.

Chapter 3.

Harry felt very satisfied as he walked out of white marble building and decided to treat himself to an ice-cream, even though it was twenty times the normal price. His mood only improved when, after he had settled himself at a small white table and was happily eating a ball of chocolate fudge, he picked up an old newspaper that a previous customer had left behind. Amid the articles declaring the appointment of Bartholomew Backwater as the new Head of the Department of Security (describing in gruesome detail the violent fate suffered by the previous Head at the wands of Deatheaters) and a whole page dedicated to the wonders of the Child of Prophecy, Harry's attention was caught by a small notice in the jobs section.

'Wanted:

Divination Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Please contact Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall for interview.'

That was all, but it was enough for Harry.

Over the two weeks Harry had spent in this new world, he had slowly begun to admit to himself that he would not be able to simply leave and abandon Britain to Voldemort. This world's Dark Lord might not be the one whom Harry had fought against all his life, but he was equally ruthless and evil. When Harry read of an attack on a muggle orphanage the week before, killing over seventy children; or of the widespread poverty and hunger caused by the wilful destruction of the wizarding economy, he felt the familiar emotions of anger and hate directed at Voldemort, whether in the new world or the old. And, even though the people in this world had been shaped by a different past, Harry could not treat them as complete strangers. So long as his friends' counterparts lived in this world, Harry knew he could not allow them to fight and die without attempting to help them.

Not only was Harry reluctant to leave this world, but he increasingly wondered if it was even possible. If magic or God or some other deciding force had brought him here, then it was probably for a purpose. Due to the prophecy, Harry was familiar with the idea of fate or destiny deciding his future and knew that it would be futile to try and avoid it, no matter how unfair. Trelawney's prophecy had spoken of either Neville or himself, but due to Harry's scar it was understood that he was the Chosen One. Now even in this world Harry was the only one who was marked by Voldemort.

It was unavoidable; Harry would have to involve himself in this war. He was a complete stranger though, and the Order of the Phoenix would no doubt be reluctant to admit him without some reassurance that he knew how to fight, and was not a potential spy. Applying for the position of Divination Professor was a perfect way to get into contact with Dumbledore and to slowly prove himself trustworthy. It was also a legitimate method of entering the castle, allowing him to begin researching a way of getting home. Even if he had to wait until after Voldemort was once again defeated, Harry was still determined to return home someday.

He was fixed in his decision. He would be the new Professor of his most dreaded subject. How wonderful.

'I must be insane to even consider this,' muttered Harry to himself, moodily poking at his sundae. 'Divination of all things! This is going to take a lot of preparation."

The first thing Harry did was contact the Department of Education and request a NEWT examination. Many records had been lost during the frequent attacks on the Ministry, so no one would know that he was not a registered resident of Britain, and didn't actually exist. Harry had never taken his Newts, or even finished Hogwarts, so he wondered what the exams would be like. He had a clear advantage, though, as he had been intensively trained by aurors and order members ever since he finished sixth year. Two years under Mad-Eye Moody would be enough for anybody to gain both magical skills and a healthy paranoia.

After going through the many elaborate security measures - including an aura-recognition scan and, surprisingly, muggle fingerprinting - Harry finally entered the main Ministry building and was met by Examiner Marchbanks.

"Ah, hello young man," the old wizard wheezed. "You are, I presume, Hadrian Morrigan."

"That's me," agreed Harry, inwardly smiling at his new name. He was too attached to his real name to change it much, but hearing Morrigan instead of Potter was still strange.

"Good, good, if you will follow me, I will lead you to my office where the exams will take place."

Harry had chosen to be tested in Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy and, of course, Divination. Many more than the average, which was five, but Harry felt that none of it would be too difficult. He had studied Ancient Runes as part of his training in order to learn Rune Magic, and he felt reasonably confident in that and Care of Magical Creatures. Muggle Studies would be a doddle.

"Right," started Professor Marchbanks. "I will issue you with the exam sheets and a standard anti-cheating exam Quill. Today you will do the theory papers, tomorrow the practical. You have two hours for each subject, you may start."

Picking up the quill, Harry read the first question - Describe the clothing normally worn by a male muggle – and, grinning, started to write.

Hours later, his arm cramped up and his back aching, Harry relaxed in bed.

"Give me Voldemort over exams any day," he moaned, feeling very sorry for himself. It was just so _boring_, though at least he didn't have to do a History test.

"Thank Merlin for that," murmured Harry, before drifting off to sleep.

The next day, after a hastily gobbled breakfast, Harry arrived to do his practical tests. He was greeted this time by a wrinkled old woman who introduced herself as Professor Tufty.

"Well, let's start with Charms first, eh?" she said enthusiastically. "No need to be nervous."

"I'm not," smiled Harry.

"Good good, then cast the Protean Charm on this quill, wordlessly if you can."

Harry did so.

"Uh, dear? I meant _with _a wand."

Harry had debated whether he should use a fake wand or even buy a new one for the exams, but had decided in the end to perform everything wandlessly as he had done for the past few years. If he was to fight effectively in the war, then his allies would have to be aware of his power-levels and not treat him like a child. Even in his old world it had taken years before Mrs Weasley had accepted Ron and Harry joining the order, insisting that they were too young. If the entire order felt that way, then Harry would never be able to get anything done. Hopefully the news of him being able to perform wandless spells would spread, allowing Harry to appear as a powerful wizard rather than a teenager.

After a couple of minutes of confusion while Harry explained to the examiner that this was his usual method of casting, they finally continued, Harry still performing everything wandlessly.

Five spells later, Professor Tufty interrupted him.

"Well, you seem very able, so why don't we make this more interesting, hmm?"

Harry looked at her warily. 'Interesting' for him meant running through a forest unarmed with a horde of Deatheaters on his tail. He was greatly relieved when he heard her idea.

"I can't be bothered to go through the whole syllabus, so I will give you free reign to cast a few of the most complex spells you know, and you will be marked accordingly. How about that?" She looked at him hopefully.

"Is that a valid way of marking?" asked Harry doubtfully.

"Not really," she shrugged, "but the whole Ministry is in complete chaos, and no one even pretends to follow the rules anymore."

"Ok, fair enough," grinned Harry, and started casting.

He charmed the ceiling to mirror the sky, like in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. He successfully used the Fidelius Charm to conceal the whole room, he conjured up silver, and he cast a protective ward so strong that no conventional spells could penetrate it. The list went on, and that was just charms.

A patronus, an immaculate self-transfiguration, and conjuring eternal flame left Harry satisfied that he had proved his skill, and Professor Tufty delighted.

"Oh, well done, old chap. Bravo! Never seen such spell work, even Dumbledore would…and all with only a small hand movement…brilliant! Simply brilliant!"

"Thanks," said Harry with a pleased grin.

"We have one hour before your next exam starts," said the examiner with a glance at the clock on the wall. "How about a duel with an Auror, hmm? It would tie everything together, and would help you know what level you are on. You have a unique spell casting method, which I'm sure they would be interested in studying."

"Oh no, I couldn't," said Harry sincerely. He was sure the aurors in this world would be even more ruthless than what he was used to.

"Nonsense!"

Fifteen minutes later Harry was facing Auror Arabella Figg, a war veteran with a rather nasty smirk on her face. While Harry was nervous, having duelled and lost painfully to her many times before, he was also pleased with the situation. The examiner had informed Auror Figg that he did not need a wand, and since she was an Order member, Harry was willing to bet Dumbledore would find out in the space of, oh, sixty seconds? Knowing Dumbledore as he did, he was sure the Headmaster would want to keep him under his surveillance. Harry was almost guaranteed a job at Hogwarts now.

He would just stick to known spells, Harry decided, so that in later fights his opponents would not know the true extent of his skills. The outcome of a duel did not depend solely on the amount of spells known. Speed and agility were much more important, so Harry could win the duel without using complex spells which might not even have been created in this world.

The two opponents faced each other, each appearing very confident.

"Begin," came Tufty's chirpy voice.

Harry promptly turned invisible, cast a silencing spell on his feet and shot three stunners at the opposing witch before a normal person could blink. Arabella Figg, however, was not normal, and managed to block the incoming curses and shoot two in return.

Deciding it took too much of his concentration to remain invisible, Harry reappeared and with a flick of his wrist shot ten curses simultaneously at his opponent. Chain casting was a very useful skill that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Spells flew across the room so fast that it was as if a constant stream of light was flowing from the two duellers. But the Auror soon became frustrated. She was giving it her all, but no matter what curse she used the boy had already cast a shield or counter curse. Was she that predictable?

Harry stood motionless in the centre of the room as the Auror dodged the hundreds of incoming spells, a smirk on his face. It was an unfair duel, since Harry had had many occasions to study Figg's fighting technique, whereas she had no way of predicting his actions. Harry considered it just revenge for all the times the Auror had hit him with particularly nasty spells when he was training back in his old world.

'This is actually kind of fun,' reflected Harry, using a particularly fancy charm to create a wall of fire around Arabella Figg.

Normally when he duelled death was always imminent, and Avada Kedavra curses were thrown around like cheering charms. Now he was having a friendly duel and was enjoying the challenge of wiping the previously smug expression off the Auror's face.

Pointing his hand at her feet, Harry caused a chasm to open in front of her and a tornado to spring up. Unable to banish it, she had to resort to weighing herself down, looking incredibly battered and frustrated.

"Intorqeo!" she yelled, causing a twisting curse to fly towards Harry, who had mere seconds before put up the necessary shield.

"Spiculum."

"Inasnum."

"Trunco!"

Finally, spotting an opening in her defences, Harry threw a concentrated ball of raw magic at his opponent. It hit her in the stomach, causing her to slam into the wall behind her and collapse unconscious.

With a wave of his hand she awoke, looking thoroughly disorientated.

"So, how did I do?" asked Harry, looking at Professor Tufty.

The examiner stared in shock for a few moments before gasping out,

"Amazing! Excellent technique… and so young… Truly remarkable!"

Harry's grin quickly disappeared once he started his Astronomy exam. Trying to remember how many moons orbited Saturn and endeavouring not to mess up on his labelling of star constellations took all his concentration. Harry had always preferred practical magic; learning facts off by heart had never been his strong point. The exam went tolerably well, as did Care of Magical Creatures, which was next, but his confidence faltered once he began his Potions exam.

He had to brew Felix Felicis during its last stages, and one wrong movement could result in a colossal explosion. Once he'd safely finished, Harry thanked Chance for giving him the Prince's old potions book. Sure it was Snape who wrote it, but it had taught Harry more than all his lessons put together. He'd never be a natural at potions, but he was at least fairly competent.

Harry's last, and most important, test was Divination. He was tested by Professor Marchbanks, and it was the only subject where Harry severely lacked the necessary talent. However, he might not be a Seer, but he was a near equivalent.

"Now, Lord Morrigan, gaze into the crystal ball and tell me what you see," wheezed the ancient examiner, his chair creaking slightly as he leaned forwards.

"Um." Harry hastily opened his senses, letting his magic explore his surroundings. It was difficult to read strangers, and even harder to see the future of someone other than himself. Luckily, with Marchbanks sitting so close by Harry managed to at least read his past. After a few minutes concentration, images began to flash through his head. What he saw shocked him. "You are troubled," he said simply. "You have received a letter from the Dark Lord; join him or die. You will not join."

"No, I will not," sighed Professor Marchbanks. "Very impressive, but tell me, do you see death?"

'How am I supposed to answer that,' wondered Harry. He rarely managed to see clearly into the future, and the future of someone he had no emotional connection to was even harder to see clearly.

He slowly stretched his magic to its furthest point, attempting to distance himself from the dimension of time. To his great surprise the fog in the crystal ball cleared and he caught glimpses of a dark room, blood and a feeling of pain, followed by a blurred image of Saint Mungo's.

"You will be attacked," said Harry hoarsely. "You will be injured, but you will survive."

"Why thank you, my boy," beamed the small man in relief.

"Oh, and in a few seconds a Ministry worker will burst in and say you are needed for an emergency," added Harry, his senses catching footsteps coming down the hall. "Apparently some wizard has forged his NEWT results, but because all the files were destroyed by deatheaters they can't prove it."

"What a mess," groaned the examiner. There was a knock at the door. "Come in!"

"Professor Marchbanks?" said a harassed ministry official. "You're needed upstairs immediately."

"Coming, coming," sighed Tufty, getting shakily to his feet. "It was a pleasure testing you," he said to Harry. "You marks should arrive tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest."

"Thank you," replied Harry with a slightly dazed grin.

'How the hell did I manage that,' wondered Harry for the hundredth time. He was sitting in the Leaky Cauldron drinking home-brewed Firewhisky in an attempt to calm himself. He'd seen into the future! How? He'd done it before, but only little things, and mostly only a few minutes in advance, maximum. Enough to know what spells someone would use in a duel, or what someone would say next, but nothing more. That was as far as his magic stretched, and even then it involved a lot of guesswork. Normally he only tried to read the past.

But this time….Professor Marchbank's near-death was days if not weeks in the future, Harry knew, but he'd managed to see clear images. How? He wasn't a true Seer, but only someone with the Sight should be able to predict the future so far ahead.

'Maybe…maybe it's because of this alternate world thing,' thought Harry. 'This isn't my reality, and I'm even in the wrong time line, so it probably has had an effect on me. In fact, it might be that because I've technically already lived through this time, I can predict it. I shouldn't even exist right now; I should really only arrive in four years time, but…. Urgh, forget it! Everything is messed up, this is no exception. My life never makes sense, so it's only when things are rational that I should start worrying."

Feeling much more relaxed after that thought, Harry drained his Firewhisky. Time to plan.


	4. One Surprise After Another

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.

Chapter 4.

"- I just don't get it."

"Weasley, just because your feeble brain has reached previously uncharted depths of incompetence, doesn't mean that the situation is incomprehensible."

"Oh, go throw yourself off a cliff, Snape!"

"Gentlemen, please!"

"I hereby declare this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix open!" announced a commanding voice.

Everyone quieted, some more reluctantly than others.

"Thank you, now, the first subject up for discussion is the attack on our colleagues, the Longbottoms," said Dumbledore, his voice weary. The war had changed everybody. All the listening faces were pale and drawn, and straining to hold on to hope. Others were missing, killed by deatheaters. No one had been left untouched by Voldemort's machinations. But for once there was good news to report. "I am happy to announce that there were no fatalities. Neville was visiting a friend, and Alice and Frank managed to activate their emergency portkeys just in time. However, it is still vital to know how their whereabouts were discovered."

"Probably another leak in the Ministry," offered Kingsley, wincing as his speech tugged at a newly formed scar on his cheek.

"Huh, the ministry is so full of holes that one could use it as a sieve," said Mel Bradley morosely.

"Adequate safety measures must be taken," said Arthur Weasley, sitting next to a group of subdued red-heads. It had been weeks since the Weasley's had received the news that Charlie was missing, presumed dead, and they had yet to recover from the blow. "Neville's our last hope."

Everyone was silent for a while.

"Poor boy," murmured Molly Weasley, her motherly instincts coming to the fore.

"He's an idiot," drawled Snape dismissively. "Our _Saviour _can hardly hold his wand straight, and any potion he touches immediately explodes. Completely incompetent."

"Really, Severus, the boy is only just sixteen," said Minerva disapprovingly.

"But think of all the things other great wizards have accomplished by that age."

"I agree with Severus, Minerva," said Lupin quietly. "His skills need to improve; right now he's only just above average.

"Moony! You're _agreeing _with him?"

"Yes, Sirius, I am. If Neville is to be capable of defeating the Dark Lord, he must be taught. Right now he's close to the bottom of his year, and wouldn't last seconds against even a vaguely experienced Deatheater."

"Well, yes, but still, agreeing with him," grumbled Sirius, not willing to completely back down.

"Well, this can be discussed between his teachers at Hogwarts," decided Dumbledore from his seat at the head of the table. "For now, Kingsley, could you try to discover how the information got to the Dark Side? The rest of you, keep on the lookout for spies. Voldemort's information network must be broken."

"I will," nodded Kingsley, "but it'll be slow work."

"Everything is nowadays," sighed Sirius. "Lily hasn't emerged from her lab for weeks. She's still messing around with that bloody charm, but not getting anywhere."

There was a commotion outside, then the door to the room was opened.

"Hello everyone, it's just me," greeted Arabella Figg, causing the few drawn wands to be lowered. "Sorry about the noise, I knocked over that bloody umbrella stand again."

"Ah, Arabella, glad you could make it."

"Sorry I'm late Albus, I was caught up at the Ministry."

"Who died?" asked Mad-Eye Moody at once from his seat in the corner.

"No one," retorted Figg, rolling her eyes. "Do stop being so morbid."

"Constant Vigilance!"

"Of course. Anyway, I have some interesting information to share," said the Auror, slumping down in a free chair.

"Well, get on with it, woman," snapped Snape, tapping his fingers impatiently.

"Today a young man came in for his NEWT exams. I think he was home schooled or something, as I didn't recognise him. The examiners were very impressed with his abilities and, for a change, asked if I'd be prepared to duel him. Just to determine his level and whatnot."

"Well, what's so diverting about that?" asked Fred Weasley curiously.

"Well for a start, he won."

Everyone goggled.

"Constant Vigilance! Can't let your guard down around a young whipper-snapper just because you feel confident!"

"But I've seen you duel, you're amazing."

"You captured Bellatrix Lestrange single-handedly!"

"Well, he's better than me, though it took him a good fifteen minutes to win," Arabella said shortly. She was an experienced auror, and admitting she had been beaten by a teenager was quite embarrassing.

"What else is there? I assume you wouldn't bother mentioning him if he was just a good dueller," said Fred.

"He doesn't have a wand."

"Huh?"

"You mean he had to borrow one? Well, maybe his parents don't have that much money," theorised Minerva McGonagall. "The prices nowadays are scandalously high."

"No, I mean he performed everything wandlessly," explained Arabella with ill-concealed irritation in her voice.

"Impossible," stated Molly Weasley flatly.

All eyes turned to the headmaster and leader of the Order.

"This is an unsettling development," admitted Dumbledore resignedly. "He must be uncommonly skilled to be able to accomplish such a thing, especially at such a young age."

"But, Albus how is it possible? Even you yourself cannot perform anything more than a simple first-year spell wandlessly," Arthur Weasley pointed out. It was Remus Lupin who answered.

"Throughout history there have been cases of highly skilled individuals with wandless powers. This young man would not be the first."

"But those were myths or exaggerations, surely," said Mel Bradley sceptically.

"No smoke without a fire," Sirius reminded her.

"Regardless, we must find out more about him," said Dumbledore. "If he turns dark it could be very dangerous. What was his name?"

"Hadrian Morrigan," supplied Arabella. This caused new eruptions.

"I thought the House of Morrigan died out generations ago?" said Lupin, looking to Dumbledore for confirmation.

"Indeed, but only because women are not allowed to inherit. He must be the first son born to that house since the last Lord Morrigan died," said the old wizard thoughtfully.

"Morrigan is one of the Fourteen Families, right?" asked Mel Bradley, glancing around for confirmation.

"That is correct, and they are related to Rowena Ravenclaw. Descended from her cousin, I believe," supplied Snape languidly, but his dark eyes flickered around his surroundings attentively. For Slytherins, paranoia is inbuilt.

"I will instruct young William Weasley to investigate Hadrian Morrigan's ancestry. Maybe the Goblins will reveal something."

"No chance, they hate our guts," snorted Sirius.

"As do all magical beings," added Mel.

"The Werewolves are holding a Moot after the next full moon. I fully expect them to declare their total allegiance to Voldemort," said Remus softly.

"Hah, and the Vampire Elders are just about ready to declare war on wizarding England. How stupid can the Ministry get?" asked Sirius rhetorically. "We'll be wiped out within months at this rate."

There was a sombre silence.

"We must not give up hope," said Dumbledore firmly. "The Light _will _triumph, in the end."

A tapping noise behind him made him turn around, drawing his wand, only to relax when seeing the cause of the disturbance. With a flick of his wand, a window opened and an owl fluttered in, dropping a letter in front of the Headmaster before taking off once more.

All eyes were on the powerful wizard as he broke the seal and skimmed the short note inside.

"Hmm, interesting," he murmured to himself.

"What is it, Albus?" asked Minerva inquisitively.

"A letter from Lord Hadrian Morrigan," replied Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.

"What? What does it say?" demanded the others at the table.

"He's applying for the vacant Divination post at the school."

"But… that job is utterly ridiculous. If he's so powerful, why would he sink that low?" asked Sirius. "Merlin, if he's another Trelawney I may just kill myself."

"Are you sure he's the one that won against Arabella?" said Mel doubtfully. "Divination is awfully woolly if you ask me."

"It's him, and now it makes perfect sense," exclaimed Figg. "He always seemed to know in advance what spells I would cast. If he's got the Sight that would explain it!" She seemed relieved to have discovered an explanation for losing the duel.

"I've never heard of the Sight being used in that way," put in Remus dubiously. Figg glared at him.

"We must not disregard the supposition that he might just want a way into the castle," said Dumbledore, his voice clearly heard over the babble. "A teacher is allowed free reign to wander."

"You think he might be a spy?" said Arthur Weasley.

"It is a possibility."

"Will you still give him the position?" asked Remus. Everyone paused for the answer.

"I will meet with him," determined Dumbledore.


	5. Are People Just Stupid?

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. This is ridiculous.

Chapter 5.

"Good evening, I apologise for keeping you waiting."

"Not at all," replied Harry politely. He had contacted the school and inquired after the vacant position, and thus found himself in the Hogs Head, ready for an interview with Professor Dumbledore.

"I am Albus Dumbledore, and you are?"

"Hadrian Morrigan," smiled Harry, shaking the proffered hand, though Harry noticed it was the left, not right one. The horcruxes apparently existed in this world as well.

"I have reserved a private room; it will be more comfortable," said Dumbledore benignly, gesturing up a small staircase.

Once they were both seated at a table in a small, badly lit room, the headmaster smiled happily.

"Sherbet Lemon?"

"No thank you," answered Harry, inwardly smiling fondly. "I prefer mints."

"Very well," twinkled the old man. "Now, then, may I see your Newt results?"

Harry handed him the required parchment on which his scores were written.

Subject:Result:

Defense against the Dark Arts: Outstanding

Transfiguration: Outstanding

Charms: Outstanding

Potions: Acceptable

Ancient Runes: Exceeds Expectations

Astronomy: Exceeds Expectations

Muggle Studies: Outstanding

Divination: Outstanding

Care of Magical Creatures: Exceeds Expectations

Total: 14 Newts.

Harry studied the man in front of him as he read over the marks. This was the first person Harry had met who he knew very well, and it was eerie looking at his beloved mentor's counterpart. At first he could see only the similarities; the twinkling eyes, the obsession with muggle sweets, even the same blackened right hand. But other things stood out, such as this Dumbledore's tired air and more suspicious glance. Thirteen extra years of war had taken their toll, just as they had on almost everyone Harry had seen so far.

"Well, this is very impressive, I must say," beamed Dumbledore. "Such results, especially in such a wide range of subjects, are rare indeed."

"Thank you," said Harry politely, sipping at his butterbeer.

"May I ask how old you are?" was Dumbledore's next question.

"Nineteen," replied Harry shortly, setting down his glass on the rough wooden table between them.

"Well, your results are favourable," Dumbledore admitted, "but I admit that I am concerned over your young age and lack of experience."

"It would be a large obstacle for teachers of other subjects," answered Harry calmly, "but Divination is, I hope you'll agree, an instinctual rather than scientific subject. Either you are a Seer or you are not; no amount of practise will change that."

"And are you a true Seer?" asked Dumbledore, raising an eyebrow.

"I see you are slightly sceptical," smiled Harry. "Allow me to demonstrate."

"Of course," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "I confess myself quite excited."

"Please hold out your hand, your right one," instructed Harry. Dumbledore obliged.

"If you're hoping to read my life line I would suggest using the other one," he smiled as he held out his burnt limb.

"This is sufficient," said Harry vaguely as he studied it. He had never had the opportunity to look closely at his Dumbledore's hand, mainly because he had considered it rude. The wound was magically powerful, Harry could see, and must be quite painful.

"You got this destroying a soul," Harry said simply, and watched with satisfaction as Dumbledore gave an almost imperceptible start. Managing to surprise the omniscient wizard was a private hobby of his.

"One of seven," Harry continued, trying to sound suitably mystic. "The ultimate evil."

"Remarkable," said the headmaster lightly, but he was staring at Harry with a penetrating gaze. "Remarkable," he repeated.

"Thank you," said Harry graciously, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, such skill most definitely balances out any lack of teaching experience," said Dumbledore at last, his customary twinkle in his eyes. "May I offer you my sincere congratulations; you are now the youngest teacher Hogwarts has had in centuries."

'Well, that wasn't too difficult,' thought Harry, as he ate dinner back at the Leaky Cauldron. 'Cheat and lie and you get a job. There weren't even any annoyingly private question that I would not have been able to answer satisfactorily. Pretty good all round, now I just have to survive teaching."

Harry spent the next three weeks clothes shopping, buying a few personal items that he required and that were available in the now shabby and sparse shops, and desperately thinking up lesson plans. The third, fourth and fifth years wouldn't be too problematic, as at least Harry had learnt that himself, but he had no clue what the sixth and seventh year classes were normally taught.

It was because his mind was occupied with what to teach that he at first didn't notice the disturbance outside Flourish and Blotts. He was almost past the bookshop before the angry voices registered.

"How dare you enter my shop! How dare you come anywhere _near _here!"

"Animals like you need to be put down," hissed an onlooker, drawing his wand. There were shouts of agreement from the growing crowd.

Moving closer, Harry saw a thin and unhealthy looking man in the centre of the onlookers. His hands were clenched, but he made no move to defend himself, even when the shop assistant shot a cutting curse at him.

"Your kind are worth dirt, werewolf," shouted someone from the back of the crowd.

"Look, all I want is to buy a book, I have money…" tried the man, his arm bleeding freely from where the curse had struck.

"Stolen, no doubt," said the assistant snidely. "I should call the ministry," he added virtuously.

"No!" the injured man shouted almost involuntarily.

"It's my duty to report dark creatures like you," said the assistant self-righteously. "Or maybe I should get rid of you altogether before you go running back to your master, You-Know-Who."

A few more members of the throng drew their wands, bloodthirsty glints in their eyes.

Not seeing any Aurors on the scene, Harry decided he'd have to step in. Quickly transfiguring his robes into more official looking clothes, he pushed forwards.

"No violence allowed! How dare you draw your wand on this street!" yelled Harry over the heads of the gathered witches and wizards. They turned, startled, instinctively lowering their wands at his officious tone.

"But sir, it's just a werewolf," said the assistant with a deprecating gesture towards his victim.

"Yes, and this is a shopping street. There are _children _here!" snapped Harry, using his most arrogant and bureaucratic voice. He turned to the rest. "Move along! There's nothing to see." Not wanting to get into any trouble, the spectators quickly began to disperse.

"But sir-"

"That is all," glared Harry at the protesting shop assistant. "_I _will deal with the situation from here on. You may go."

Intimidated by Harry's glare, the man turned, still grumbling, and re-entered the bookstore.

Harry sighed, immediately dropping his commanding attitude, and turned to the accused werewolf, who was futilely attempting to stem the flow of blood from his wound. It must have been deep if a werewolf's natural healing powers were ineffective.

"Here," said Harry, and muttered a gentle healing spell.

The man looked up in surprise before muttering a hoarse "thanks."

"Welcome," smiled Harry. "What book did you wish to buy, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Any book on wards."

"Wait one sec and I'll get it." Without waiting for an answer Harry entered Flourish and Blotts and bought a copy of Vincent Macabre's 'Wards and Warding', glaring at the shop assistant the entire time.

Stepping back out onto the street, Harry was a bit surprised to see the werewolf had actually listened to him and was still there, but smiled cheerfully.

"Here you go," he said, offering him the package.

"Thank you," the man said again, before taking out some gold coins. "How much?"

"Two galleons, three sickles," replied Harry, accepting the money.

The other man hesitated slightly, then quickly said, "My name's Rave."

"Hadrian," grinned Harry, then turned to leave. "It was nice meeting you," he called over his shoulder.

"Likewise," muttered Rave, before heading in the opposite direction.

For the next few hours Harry pondered over what he had seen. In his old world, dark creatures had been feared and hated, but not to such a drastic extent. Here, ordinary witches and wizards were prepared to kill and no one seemed to disagree with the prevailing sentiment. No wonder Voldemort was winning. Beings like Werewolves and Vampires were probably desperate to join him. Harry knew that he had to do something to solve the problem, but he'd never been particularly good at situations that involved a lot of patience. He realised that he would have to start small, slowly re-integrating Dark beings into society, but didn't have much of an idea as to how. It was as he was on his way to Gringotts that he was hit by a brain wave, making him smile with satisfaction as he passed through the imposing doors of the bank.

Harry hadn't scheduled an appointment with his new financial advisor, but nevertheless was soon ushered into a comfortable and moderately large office. The walls were covered in goblin art and weaponry, and comfortable looking furniture littered the room. Harry's magic was humming happily inside him from the spells woven throughout the building.

"Greetings. May Gold grow from your labour," said Harry with a bow.

"May your labour yield you Gold," intoned the goblin in reply.

Once introductions were concluded, they both sat down on either side of the desk.

"Before I come to the main reason for my visit, I would just like to ask if there have been any unforeseen developments in accordance to my Estates."

"I have yet to completely put everything in order; I must first fully acquaint myself with your finances, but as of yet everything has been regular, sir," replied the goblin promptly, but did nothing to hide the expression sneering boredom on his face.

"Thank you, Smicklehook," nodded Harry. "Now, as to my primary design in scheduling this meeting, I wish to establish a charity foundation."

The goblin's eyes widened slightly, and he sat up a little straighter. Rich wizards were not known to be philanthropic.

"What would this foundation be in aid of, sir?" he inquired, his voice losing its bored tone.

"As I understand it, the Ministry of Magic has passed many laws limiting the freedom of many magical beings," started Harry.

"Yes, that is so," agreed Smicklehook, with some bitterness.

"Well, I wish to establish a Foundation for the Protection, Education and Employment of Werewolves. I would also like to set up a number of safe houses throughout the country to help improve the situation of Werewolves in our community," revealed Harry, as Smicklehook began jotting down a few notes. "These houses are to be spacious and well-equipped. Numerous bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, living area, etc. In the cellar, secure cells should be built in order to provide a safe place for them to transform. I want to employ a potions master and medi-witch to heal any injuries incurred and to brew the Wolfsbane potion which will be unreservedly distributed. To start with, though, only one safe house should be built as a trial."

"And the costs?" asked Smicklehook, still scribbling.

"Everything should be completely free of charge," Harry said immediately. "Wolfsbane potion and necessities such as food and clothing are to be available to any who ask for them. I want all expenses to be paid out of the Morrigan Family Vault."

"It will be expensive," ventured Smicklehook.

"Do you, as my financial advisor, believe that it is an unwise course of action?" asked Harry interestedly.

"No," said Smicklehook thoughtfully. "From interest alone you receive a yearly sum of over six hundred thousand galleons, which should amply cover all costs. Because of the ongoing war, labour is cheap."

"Good," smiled Harry, satisfied.

"How is one to gain admittance into such safe houses?" asked the Goblin, looking at Harry expectantly, a quill paused to take notes.

"The only requirement will be lycanthropy. No name, deposit or credentials will be needed. It is, however, to be made clear that violence will not be tolerated. Each safe house should have a caretaker, who will ensure that no aggression or crime takes place within the building. The usual unbreakable and anti-theft charms are to be cast, of course."

"Charms," muttered Smicklehook as he wrote. Then louder said, "I would make a rough estimate that it would take three weeks to get one of these safe houses up and running."

"No longer?" asked Harry surprised.

"People are desperate for work, and will therefore work hard," shrugged the Goblin in reply.

"That is good news, at least, but the problem of making the werewolf population aware of these houses is one I am not certain how to solve. What is your opinion on the subject?" asked Harry, languidly reclining in his comfy armchair.

"Well, posters and advertisements in newspapers could be used, but I doubt it will reach many, as magical beings are ostracised from wizarding society. Such news would most likely spread by word of mouth, but it would perhaps be sensible to write to the known werewolves or pack Alphas," Smicklehook advised.

"They would not take it as an affront?" said Harry cautiously.

"If they have any sense, then no, but they may be suspicious as to the reason behind such goodwill," replied the Goblin, shooting an inquisitive glance at his employer.

"Basically it's because the Ministry is made up of ineffectual morons," said Harry briskly, earning a slight smile from the otherwise surly advisor.

After ironing out a few more details, Harry stood up to leave.

"May Gold flow until our next meeting."

"May Gold flow," replied Smicklehook with a respectful bow.

Pleased with what he had accomplished, Harry left the bank.


	6. Back to School

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.

Chapter 6.

"Lord Morrigan, I presume?" said the stern looking witch.

"Yes, and you must be Professor McGonagall," smiled Harry in greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you." And it was, as she was the one person who seemed completely unchanged. The older witch, Harry could tell, was most disapproving of him, no doubt because he was a Divination teacher and also so young. Crisply, she instructed him to follow her.

Harry was quite nervous entering the castle. All the teachers returned two days early in order to prepare for their classes, so even the deserted corridors made him slightly uneasy. In his world he had known Dumbledore very well, and his counter-part was not so different as to prevent Harry from realising that he didn't trust the man who claimed to be Lord Morrigan.

Harry was by no means sure that he would be able to keep his secrets when living in such close quarters.

"Leave your bags here in the hall," instructed McGonagall stiffly. "The houselves will deal with them. I and the rest of the staff are eating lunch at present. Would you care to join us?"

"Yes, indeed," said Harry pleasantly. "I am rather hungry."

He followed the Transfiguration teacher into the great hall, which seemed even larger without hundreds of students milling about. Only the staff table was occupied. McGonagall made the necessary introductions.

"Everyone, this is the new divination Professor, Hadrian Morrigan. Professor Morrigan, these are the professors Filius Flitwick,"

"Charms," piped up the tiny wizard.

"Rebecca Pomphrey," continued Minerva.

"School nurse," stated a solemn woman who Harry guessed was in her late twenties. He wondered what had happened to Poppy Pomphrey, and what relation the new school nurse was to her.

"Elvira de Santigo."

"Survival Skills instructor," smiled a petite, dark haired woman next to Rebecca Pomphrey. Harry had neither heard of her nor the class before. He supposed that the long years of war forced the teachers to realise that they could not protect their students for ever. In Harry's old world the teachers had continued to teach the same syllabus of minor transfiguration, decorative charms and purely defensive spells in spite of Voldemort's return to power.

"Rubeus Hagrid,"

"Groundskeeper," the half-giant said gruffly. Harry was shocked to see his face badly scarred and his arm held at an odd angle, yet was happy to observe that his black eyes were still warm and friendly. As his first friend in the magical world, he had always had a soft spot for the half-giant.

McGonagall continued until she got to,

"Severus Snape. He's the substitute Potion's master," she added, obviously not trusting him to do anything but glare. "Professor Maven is currently unable to teach due to a deatheater attack. And Remus Lupin," she finished.

"Defence against the Dark Arts," said the brown haired man in a hoarse voice.

"Of course, not all the teachers have arrived yet," McGonagall informed him, sitting down next to the diminutive charms professor. "We are still missing our Muggle Studies professor, Andrew Hannigan, and our Healing Arts Mistress, Emma Grey."

"Hello everyone," grinned Harry, forcing himself not to beam stupidly in his parent's best friend and erstwhile teacher's direction. It was a relief to see him whole and well, and in fact looking much less tired and grey than Harry had ever seen him. In his world, Remus Lupin had died minutes before Voldemort himself. It puzzled him however, as to how Remus could find work at Hogwarts. Werewolves had been banned from holding any jobs in the public sector, or where they came into contact with anyone under the age of seventeen. How the lycanthrope managed to become a teacher under such restrictions was a mystery. Maybe only a select few knew of his affliction?

"How was your journey?" asked Pomona Sprout, making polite conversation.

"Oh, excellent," smiled Harry. "It wasn't far, just from London."

"Mmm, I had to travel all the way from Helsinki," said Sinistra, joining in. "I was doing some research on the stars in the northern hemisphere; fascinating work. The only problem was all those new travel regulations they've introduced. I was almost arrested at the border on the grounds of 'suspicious behaviour.'"

"Yes, they're extremely tedious aren't they," agreed Sprout. "I haven't been able to visit my sister in France for months. Between the dark lord and the Ministry everything is cut off."

"And each is as extreme as the other," said Elvira de Santigo in a soft Spanish accent. "Either you are killed or thrown in jail."

There was a sober silence, but Sprout determinedly moved to a lighter subject.

"Professor Morrigan," she said, turning to him, "You never attended Hogwarts yourself, did you?"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "My entire family was in hiding. "

"Well, beware of the rivalry between Houses," she smiled, sending a sly glance to her fellow Head of Houses. "My Hufflepuffs are very well behaved, of course, but the most outrageous brawls regularly break out between Gryffindor and Slytherin."

Both Snape and McGonagall glared at her.

"The only reason your house does not get involved is because they are already occupied with cowering on the floor," Snape drawled acerbically.

"My Gryffindors are perfectly well behaved," snapped McGonagall, nostril's flaring. "They are merely upholding the honour of their house." The words, _unlike your house that lets people walk all over them_, were left unsaid, but nevertheless understood.

Sprout's smile only widened though, as Remus Lupin saw fit to point out that the two rivals were, in affect, agreeing with each other, which lead to both Snape and McGonagall quickly aiming their glares at each other instead.

"The enmity between the different houses has worsened over the years, reflecting the war outside," confided Sinistra to Harry, "It's inevitable, even though this is a school. You'll get used to it,"

"Have you been teaching long?" asked Harry civilly, though inwardly he was surprised at the level of hostility between the two older teachers. The war had obviously changed a lot.

"No-" started Sinistra, but was interrupted by Snape, who was intent on being as aggravating as possible in revenge for Sprout's comments.

"Surely, as a Seer you should be able to answer that question yourself," he sneered.

Harry sighed. Why did Snape hate him even under an assumed name and in an alternate universe?

"It is extremely difficult to See at will," Harry said, struggling to remain civil, though inwardly cringing at how like Trelawney he sounded. "It normally comes unbidden."

There was an uncomfortable silence which was only broken by Snape muttering "how convenient." Harry ignored him and instead turned to Hooch and engaged her in a conversation on Quidditch. By the end of lunch they were calling each other by their first names and Harry had promised to have a one-on-one Seeker match sometime that month. The other teachers chatted amongst themselves until Harry stood up.

"I'm going to unpack, see you all later."

Once he had left Remus said demurely,

"What's the betting he'll get lost and disappear for at least a week?"

"I didn't even tell him where his rooms are. He'll never make it to the North Tower!" said McGonagall, but she didn't seem too distressed at the fact.

------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, this won't do at all," frowned Harry, gazing around his new class-room. It was dark and cluttered with chintz chairs and elaborate candelabra. The air was so thick with incense Harry had trouble breathing, and the colour scheme hurt his eyes.

"Well, I guess that answers the question as to who taught Divination up until now," he grinned. "No teacher apart from Trelawney would decorate quite this badly. Well, change is definitely needed."

Harry loved being back at Hogwarts. The castle was so old it thrummed with magic; it set Harry's skin tingling and made his magic soar. He grinned elatedly and raised a hand. "Oh, this will be fun."

----------------------------------------------------------------

Contrary to everyone's expectations Harry turned up only a few hours after lunch looking refreshed and energetic, not having fallen victim to the numerous trap doors and moving staircases. The other teachers were settling down to a staff meeting, and Dumbledore was also present. Harry decided to take a seat next to Vera Hooch, not prepared to deal with someone like Snape on his first day.

"Welcome, everyone," said Dumbledore, beaming around the room. "I hope your holidays were satisfactory."

The professors muttered a few non-committal sentences.

"Well then!" he twinkled. "To business. This year we have a greater number of first years, so I want your input as to how to deal with the many students. Should we merely have larger classes, or should they have lessons only with their housemates?"

"Just their housemates," said Snape immediately. "I don't know why you always insist on making me teach my Slytherins and the dunderheaded Gryffindors together. It's preposterous!"

"I disagree," countered McGonagall primly, though Harry suspected she actually agreed with her colleague but refused to admit it. "Inter-house rivalries are very strong, and segregated classes will only enhance the animosity."

"Hear, hear," put in Sprout, and the other teachers nodded their agreement. Snape scowled.

"Very well," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "And on that note, does anyone have any ideas on promoting house unity?"

"Quidditch!" suggested Vera enthusiastically.

"We already have matches," pointed out Flitwick. "And they're a security risk."

"More Quidditch," she beamed. "Every year group can have its own team."

"Absolutely not," said Pomphrey firmly. "They already massacre each other as it is. If you get inexperienced flyers zooming around they're bound to crash."

"Hadrian, back me up on this," appealed Hooch.

"Uh," was Harry's inarticulate response to being put on the spot. "How about having informal matches from time to time? Or else extra-curricular activities like a Duelling club?" he hazarded.

"Veto," sneered Snape.

"But why, Severus," protested Flitwick, who Harry knew was once a duelling champion. "It will not only bring the students together, it will also teach them some vital skills."

Snape couldn't think up a sufficient response, so the others managed to agree on having a duelling club run by Flitwick and Remus Lupin.

"Excellent," nodded the Headmaster. "It will also help to lighten the atmosphere. As before, we will have to make sure to organise many events to keep the students occupied. Too many students have lost family members, and dwelling on the losses of the war is not healthy.

"Which leads me to a more sombre issue," continued Dumbledore. "Seven of our students have lost immediate family over the summer,-"

"Eight," said Harry immediately. "Since…two hours ago."

"Really?" sighed Dumbledore.

"Yes," replied Harry firmly, though he looked confused. "An Emily Parks? Ring any bells?" He glanced round at the other teachers, slightly uncertain.

"Oh, the poor dear," sniffed Sprout. "She's such a sweet girl."

"She's a complete idiot," drawled Snape.

"Professor Snape! Show _some _compassion," admonished McGonagall coldly.

"Well I would, Professor McGonagall, if I thought she actually had suffered." Snape shot a sneer at Harry, who returned it with a glare, though inwardly noting the formal way the two teachers addressed each other. _Professor Snape_, not Severus. In his world, the two Heads of Houses were friendly rivals, here they seemed to actively dislike each other.

"Enough," commanded Dumbledore. "We will find out soon enough. The point is that we must make allowances for these students and offer them our support."

"Of course, Headmaster," said Vector. "But will their remaining families allow them to return?"

"Yes, they will," responded Dumbledore and Harry was again struck by how old he looked. "After all, Hogwarts is the safest place left."

-----------------------------------------------------

Again, _what the hell happened? _Where had that knowledge of Emily Parks come from? Normally he never knew information like that without manipulating his magic first. Was he losing control? But technically the whole thing should have been impossible, as Harry had not been near the girl or anyone connected to the attack, and therefore had no subject to extract the information from.

'If I keep coming out with random statements like that, I'm going to become seriously disturbed," thought Harry. 'Well, at least any odd behaviour will be attributed to me being a Seer,' Harry comforted himself. 'I should look on the bright side. The teachers may hate me and I may be stuck in a job I'm not qualified for, but at least if I mess up and reveal something that a stranger shouldn't know, I can just say I Saw it. And, hey, I can't be worse that Trelawney.'

----------------------------------------------------

Harry's last day of freedom before the students arrived was mostly spent flicking feverishly through Divination textbooks and deciding that it was all complete rubbish. Venus being close to Mars did not mean you would break up with your boyfriend or girlfriend, Harry was certain of that. Firenze had taught them well. Who thought up all that drivel?

Sighing, Harry made his way to Dumbledore's office. He had to do something about this.

"Sugar Quill," muttered Harry after testing the magic surrounding the gargoyle guarding the entrance, and stepped onto the revolving staircase. Before he could knock, however, a voice called out,

"Come in, Professor Morrigan."

'How does he always do that?" wondered Harry. He had never managed to work it out in his old world.

"Good evening, Headmaster," greeted Harry politely. "I was wondering if I could speak with you for a few minutes."

"Of course, my boy, please take a seat," replied Dumbledore readily, while the portraits of former headmaster and headmistresses peered suspiciously down at the new teacher. Dumbledore's office had not changed much, Harry noticed. It was still full of strange devices that Harry couldn't figure out the purpose of, but Fawkes was missing from his usual perch.

"What can I do for you?" prompted the headmaster, steepling his fingers.

"I was wondering if I could change the lesson plans for some of my classes," said Harry.

"Oh, what part?" asked Dumbledore, his gaze sharpening.

"I wish to make it slightly more practical, but no major changes," Harry lied smoothly, trying to appear calm and unconcerned. In this world he had the advantage of knowing the Headmaster, while Dumbledore knew nothing of him. Hopefully he would not pick up on Harry's lie.

"May I ask why?" inquired the old wizard with mild astonishment.

"Because Divination theory is mostly superfluous," stated Harry bluntly. "I will, of course, teach them enough to pass their exams, but Divination is an instinctual subject, and differs from person to person. I find that set rules only inhibit talent."

"You are the expert," murmured Dumbledore politely, "but what exactly do you have in mind?"

"In truth, I will not change the syllabus much for the third, fourth and fifth years. Hardly any of them will have an iota of talent, so they may as well learn the more widely accepted version of Divination."

"Understandable, carry on," nodded his employer.

"I understand that there are only two seventh years and one sixth year who have chosen my subject?"

"That is correct."

"Then I wish to combine the two classes and teach them some techniques for mental control, and a branch of magic that I have developed myself."

"You are not going to teach them Occlumency, I hope?" asked Dumbledore suspiciously. "Mind arts are considered Dark by the Ministry and are therefore illegal."

"No, I will not be touching on Occlumency," assured Harry. "Only a few meditation techniques, as mental discipline plays an important role in the Art of Divination. It will also help them master the new form of Seeing that I plan to teach them."

"And what form is that," asked Dumbledore, leaning forward on his desk and gazing at his employee intently.

"Doesn't have a name," shrugged Harry. "As I said, I invented it; or at least reinvented it. There are no written records of the art, though there are hints of mages throughout history with similar powers. As you know, true Visions come unbidden, in vague and ambiguous terms, and often cannot be recollected by the Seer in question. Most Seers find it impossible to See consciously. My method does not allow one to See as far into the future as true Vision, but it is definitely possible to view months back into the past."

"The past?" said Dumbledore, startled.

"You just need the right medium, which is the tricky bit," grinned Harry. "It also depends on one's power levels.

"Intriguing," twinkled Dumbledore. "But tell me, have you not also had true Visions?"

"Oh yes," assured Harry, calmly lying. "But it is impossible to teach much about that in class."

"Professor Morrigan," started Dumbledore, having reached a decision. "You can teach your students whatever you deem fit, as long as it not illegal. Just make sure they pass their exams."

"Of course, thank you," smiled Harry gratefully.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"This sorting is taking forever," complained Hooch.

"You're just hungry, Vera, admit it," accused Harry.

"Fine, it's true, I want to eat," she grinned. "But did anyone ever tell you that all-knowing Seers piss people off?"

"I didn't See that," shrugged Harry, hiding a grin. "You thumping the table with your cutlery chanting 'food, food' was a tiny clue."

"Damn it, I _knew _there was something giving me away," mock-scowled Hooch.

"Shouldn't you be paying attention to the Sorting?" asked Harry, as Melanie Periwinkle became a Ravenclaw.

"Yeah, but it's boring," she said dismissively. "Anyway, what about you?"

"I only teach third years and above," said Harry with a shrug.

"Lucky you; the first years are always obnoxious little devils," complained Hooch, then Dumbledore got up to do his speech. "Ooh, speech!"

Harry rolled his eyes at her immature behaviour. He had never seen this side of her as a student. Some of the other teachers were giving the two youngest professors disapproving looks.

"Welcome, students," beamed Dumbledore, his white beard gleaming in the dandle light. The hall was truly spectacular, and Harry felt reassured at the sight of students filling the tables, albeit it drove home the fact that he was now a teacher.

------------------------------------------

"So what do you think of the new firsties," Dean Thomas asked his best friend Neville Longbottom.

"They're ok," he shrugged.

"They're titchy, though," said Seamus Finnegan, gesturing to the few shivering first years sitting at the end of the table.

"Don't be so rude!" snapped a bushy haired girl who had until then been immersed in a book. A prefect badge was pinned to her pristine school robes.

The boys rolled their eyes.

"Relax, Granger," said Dean.

"It is not done to disrespect fellow students," she said primly. "Especially first years."

She continued to lecture, but Neville tuned her out. Honestly, being a book worm and a muggleborn wasn't that bad, but did she have to be so obnoxious?

"Welcome students!" pronounced Dumbledore, beginning his annual speech and therefore cutting off any further discussion throughout the hall. He wore a sombre expression as his gaze swept the Hall, noting the many empty seats of fallen students. "First, please stand for a minutes silence for the students who have left us. Eleanor Fitzwilliam, Ronan Fitzwilliam, Annabel Frost, Penelope Clearwater, Emily Parks, Andromache Bardsley and Arnaud Delacroix were all innocent victims of this war. We will remember them."

Silently, the students rose to their feet. A few - close friends or relatives of the dead; shook with quite tears as they stood. The rest were respectful, but otherwise unaffected. Deaths were too frequent now for every life lost to be treated as a tragedy. No one in this hall had not lost someone close to them. After twenty years of war, even children were numb to the pain of losing a loved one.

After the minute had passed, the students seated themselves once more, shooting glances of suspicion or outright hatred between the different tables, each house blaming the other.

Dumbledore sighed at the sign of discord, then continued to speak in more light-hearted tones. "Now, a few school rules. Due to the ever present threat of Voldemort," everyone winced and one girl almost had hysterics, "I will again urge you all to err on the side of caution. Curfew is to be vigorously followed, and Hogsmeade visits will only be available to sixth and seventh years, and take place under strict supervision from Aurors and teachers. The Forbidden Forest is, as the name suggests, completely out of bounds. Also, if you see any suspicious behaviour, please notify the teachers immediately.

"I also regret to inform you that Professor Maven has still not recovered from the curses he sustained during the attack on Diagon Alley over a year ago. Therefore Professor Snape has been gracious enough to agree to continue teaching Potions in his stead."

The Slytherin students clapped in support of their Head of House, but the applause from the other tables was decidedly unenthusiastic.

"Another year with the sadistic bastard," groaned a third year Gryffindor near Neville.

"Reckon we could sabotage a potion to get Snape into Saint Mungo's along with Professor Maven?" asked Dean hopefully.

"Nah, the man may be a useless and blatantly unfair teacher, but he is good enough at potions not to let himself be blown up," replied Neville.

"How dare you talk about a teacher like that!" snapped Hermione Granger, once more glaring. She quickly cut herself off from continuing, though, as Dumbledore motioned for silence. The Gryffindors seated near her rolled their eyes at her behaviour.

"On a lighter note," continued Dumbledore. "Professor Trelawney decided to take a well-deserved holiday, so we have a new Divination teacher this year, Professor Morrigan!"

A tall, slim and dark haired man stood up and waved at the students, who clapped vigorously, both in welcome and in celebration of Trelawney's departure.

"Wow, he looks so young," said Neville. At most Morrigan looked like he was in his early twenties. "How could he have got the teaching position?"

"I don't care, he's just so handsome," said Parvati dreamily.

"And his emerald eyes are so dreamy," seconded Lavender. The boys shook their heads in disgust.

"The man's probably an idiot and a fraud," scowled Seamus. Everyone knew he had a crush on Parvati. "Think of Trelawney."

"Ooh, I see **Death **in your future," cried Dean in a fake, high voice. "The Grim is stalking you!"

The other boys laughed, but Parvati just wailed, "Why did I give up Divination!"

All over the hall, girls seemed to be complaining about much the same thing, while others stared at the new professor in admiration. Professor Morrigan, Neville noted, seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the attention. His green eyes were roaming the hall, taking in every inch. The young Gryffindors eyes narrowed slightly, though, as he saw the Slytherins and some Ravenclaws muttering darkly to one another, sending subtle glances at the new Professor.

"Give me Defence against the Dark Arts any day," he said firmly.

Some near-by fifth years immediately simpered, "You're so _brave_," causing Neville to sit up a little straighter. Ever since the Prophecy had been leaked to the press seven years ago, everyone acted as if he were some sort of hero. Neville enjoyed the attention, though was unsettled at the thought of actually fulfilling the prophecy.

'Especially 'cos I can't live up to their expectation," he admitted to himself. 'If Voldemort attacks me in person, I'll be flattened.'

---------------------------------------

Dumbledore watched the chattering students with a smile. It was good to see them all safe and happy in the middle of a war, but he noticed that his favourite student, Neville Longbottom, looked a bit depressed. Poor boy, sighed Dumbledore, but brightened up as he saw his new professor squirm uneasily under the gazes of almost all the female students in the hall.

Hadrian Morrigan was a mystery that was for sure. What was he hiding? Dumbledore was determined to find out.

----------------------------------------------

Harry himself was searching through the sea of students for faces he recognised. Some he had never seen before, others which he had been expecting were noticeably missing. Such as Ron Weasley. Where was he? Was he dead or, Harry started slightly as this thought struck him, had he never existed? Many families would not dare to have children in the middle of a war, were the Weasleys one of them? Harry's eyes flickered along the Gryffindor table. He could see the twins, surrounded by a laughing bunch of Gryffindor students, but no Ron or Ginny.

He was soon distracted, though, by Vera and Professor Sprout, who were obligingly warning him of all the things that could go wrong on the first day, smirking as he grew visibly more nervous.

Harry tried to tune them out, instead picking at his meagre food. Shortage reigned even here at Hogwarts. The once overflowing tables were only covered by simple meals in small amounts. Reminiscently, Harry recalled the magnificent banquets there had previously been held at Hogwarts. Even here, in a school full of children, clear signs of the war outside were visible. Thin bodies, grim faces and tearful eyes lurked beneath the cheerful surface of the sparkling hall. Oh, what a world to live in, thought Harry sombrely.


	7. Neville Longbottom: the Chosen One

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.

Chapter 7.

"Neville!"

The sound of the curtains of his four-poster bed being drawn back only made him snuggle deeper into his pillow. He kept his eyes shut firmly, wanting to ignore both the grating voice of his dorm mate and the bright sunlight streaming through the window.

"Wake up!" yelled Dean, grabbing his duvet and attempting to pull it off the limpet-like Gryffindor, only to end up in a rather undignified tug of war. Dean finally gave up and, with an angry huff, headed for the showers.

With a sleepy smile of triumph, Neville curled up again.

"Neville, come on, we'll miss breakfast," Seamus complained from where he was rummaging haphazardly through his wardrobe. The sound of running water came from the adjacent bathroom.

"Not movin'," mumbled Neville from under his covers. He knew he would have to get up eventually, but wanted to cling on to the last vestiges of sleep for as long as possible. His dreams had been particularly pleasant that night. The Dark Side had attacked Hogwarts, but had been heroically defeated by Neville and his friends. Neville had reassured the terrified students that he would save them from the evil wizards, and had valiantly fought off dozens of deatheaters single-handedly, ultimately saving the day. With the usual impreciseness of dreams, Neville never actually battled Voldemort, but knew he had defeated him anyway. His parents had suddenly appeared beside him, as had Dumbledore, and the whole school had cheered for him...

"Neville!" yelled Dean again, his voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. This had always been Dean's technique. Victory through repetition.

Wincing from both the harsh noise and the strong sunlight, Neville blearily sat up, grumpy at being forced to waken. Dreams were much more comforting than reality. In dreams, he was invincible; he became what the world expected him to be, and what he wished to be himself. Brave, powerful, determined; the Dark Lord's equal and the true Child of Prophecy, capable of facing anything and everything.

Then he would wake up.

Due to his friends or his parents, or just his own body's treachery, he would be forced awake to live in reality. A reality where he was a fifteen-year-old wizard, not even qualified yet, barely average in school, and a disappointment to everyone.

"Neville!"

Grumbling and muttering epithets under his breath, Neville finally rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, grabbing a red towel on his way. He knew from experience that his persistent dorm mate would not allow him to fall back to sleep.

As he stood under the strong cascade of warm water, Neville reflected that it was not so much that people saw him as a disappointment; rather it was their determination to see him as the Saviour that bothered him. All of Hogwarts viewed him as a hero despite evidence to the contrary and refused to see the truth; that Neville was nothing special. Neville was dreading the day when they would become disillusioned. Already the people closest to him seemed to have realised his mediocrity.

Dumbledore was always prepared to give him kind words and advice, but did not seem inclined to treat him as anything other than a rather dim teenager. His teachers' smiled encouragingly at his efforts in class, but he could often see their exasperation at his lack of improvement. His parents refused to let him fight, and protected him from the true horror of the war. They had been largely successful in keeping him ignorant of the crisis the country was facing, as it was only once he'd started Hogwarts and began talking to other students that Neville realised how desperate the situation was. He'd known about Voldemort, and the Prophecy, but it was only when he was confronted with the dozens of deaths reported daily, and the hundreds of students who looked to _him _to save them, that Neville had truly understood the responsibility he held.

The smiles in the corridors, the glances of awe and respect, the overwhelming popularity: these were all things that Neville enjoyed. Walking through the school he felt confident, imposing and almost able to delude himself into thinking that he truly was the person his peers thought him to be. Only when he was alone did he begin to doubt himself, wondering if he would ever find 'the Power the Dark Lord knows not' and if he would ever succeed in his allotted destiny. He was terrified of the disappointment and angry incriminations that would fall upon him if the world ever found out his duplicity. The one thing he was certain of was that he had to avoid that happening and at any cost.

"All right, mate?" called Seamus. "You've been spending an age in that shower."

Reluctantly, Neville stepped out onto the already wet floor of the bathroom, wrapping his towel around him.

"I know you don't get the importance of personal hygiene, Seamus," Neville quipped, smiling to show he meant no offence, "but try not to flaunt your ignorance, ok?"

"Oy!"

Recognising the warning signs of outrage, Neville prepared to duck any incoming hexes from the irate Irishman. He need not have worried. Unable to find his wand in the chaotic devastation that was his side of the room, Seamus resorted to throwing a harmless pillow at him instead, glaring at the other Gryffindor.

"Don't worry, Seamus, Parvati seems to like you despite the smell," smirked Dean, joining in. He had already finished getting ready, and stood brandishing his wand over his trunk. "Unpack!" he yelled hopefully over his neatly folded clothes. Nothing happened.

"Do either of you know a good banishing charm?" he asked.

Seamus ignored him. "Do you really think Parvati likes me?"

"No," said Dean, "now what about a banishing charm?"

"She actually smiled at me last night, you know? I think I'm getting somewhere," continued Seamus, struggling to pull on a sock while forcing rolls of parchment into a fraying bag.

"I'd do it by hand if I were you," Neville warned Dean. "Remember what happened last time? You managed to vanish all your clothes. And Seamus, she smiles at everyone."

"They turned up eventually," shrugged Dean dismissively.

"Yeah, two weeks later in the middle of the lake," reminded Seamus, abandoning his romantic speculations in favour of reminding his friend of this embarrassing event. "I have to admit the squid did look quite fetching with your underpants on its tentacles."

"Shut up," mumbled Dean. "Ha, for once I was glad I'm muggleborn. My parents couldn't send me a howler for losing all my stuff."

There was a rather awkward pause. Seamus nodded sympathetically, while Neville busied himself with searching for a quill. He knew, of course, that muggleborns were just as good as pureblood wizards, but still, it was hardly the sort of...difference one discussed, even amongst friends.

Dean broke the silence. "You guys ready yet, I'm starving."

Neville shrugged on a black robe before nodding. "Yep, ready to go."

The three Gryffindor boys enthusiastically began making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. As usual the welcoming feast seemed days ago. Neville knew that at least for Seamus, regular meals of the size served at Hogwarts were rare. There was high unemployment throughout the wizarding world; as a witch who had married a muggle, Seamus' mother was one of the first to lose her job. His father had been killed years ago in a Deatheater attack.

Due to the late hour breakfast was almost over, though the Hall was still quite full. Lavender and Parvati were already seated at the end of the Gryffindor table, and the boys headed over to join them at the predictable insistence of Seamus.

"Late, as usual," smiled Lavender as Neville sat down beside her and began helping himself to some toast, shooting her a sheepish smile.

"McGonagall already came by with our timetables," said Pavati, waving a few slips of paper at them. "You guys have Potions with the Slytherins first thing. Here, see for yourselves."

While Neville and Dean burst out with a few choice phrases at the unfairness of their schedule, Seamus smiled adoringly at Parvati, touching her hand for an inordinate amount of time as he took the proffered piece of paper.

"Potions followed by history!" exclaimed Dean, examining his timetable. "Worst two lessons first thing on a Monday; I never thought McGonagall was such a sadist."

"We can catch up on our sleep during history," shrugged Neville. "We'll need it after Snape's gruelling lesson."

"At least Survival Skills is on a Friday, giving us the whole weekend to recover from that torture," said Lavender in relief.

"It's a brilliant class," Parvati disagreed with her friend, waving her fork around for emphasis. "Professor Santigo really knows her stuff."

"Yeah sure, but three hours of swimming round lakes and trekking through forests is not my idea of fun," snapped Lavender. Neville and the other boys ignored them. The argument was a familiar one, and Neville doubted they'd ever reach an agreement.

Instead, he looked down the table at the rest of his housemates. The few who caught his eye nodded and smiled in greeting. Others were busy bemoaning their timetables or finishing homework, while a group of sixth and seventh years were angrily discussing something further down the table. They were frowning and shooting furious glances at the Slytherin table, and Neville recognised the slight shimmer in the air surrounding them as a privacy ward.

He nudged a fourth year sitting beside him, Alberic van Bracht, catching his attention before nodding at the group.

"What are they planning?"

Dean and Seamus leaned over to hear the answer.

"Not sure," van Bracht shrugged. "Painful retribution is a good guess. Two second years, one a Gryff, are down in the hospital wing, and won't be leaving for the next couple of days. They've been hit with a couple of _very _nasty curses."

"Do they know which Slytherin did it?" asked Dean.

"Not exactly, but Malfoy's gang at least knew about it."

Glaring across the hall at Draco Malfoy, Neville agreed with this assessment. The blond Slytherin was one of the more violent members of his house, and was looking particularly smug at the moment. Neville hated that self-satisfied bastard. His hand curled into a fist as he watched the blond lean over and say something to Zabini, before both of them turned to meet his gaze with amused smirks. Neville continued to glare even after the two turned back to their meal. His gaze was only broken when the bell rang and students began to stand and head off to their classes.

"Come on, mate, let's go," Seamus muttered, pulling him out of his chair and towards the door.

His friends shot him sympathetic glances as they headed down to the dungeons. Two years ago, Lucius Malfoy had been part of an attack on Diagon Alley. During the ensuing fight, Frank Longbottom was hit by a blasting curse cast by Malfoy which had destroyed his wand arm. The Aurors managed to regain control of the alley, but Malfoy escaped. Frank Longbottom's magical skills had decreased severely, now only able to hold a wand in his left hand.

Ever since then the rivalry between Neville and Draco Malfoy had escalated considerably; but to Neville's shame, Malfoy normally won their fights. The Slytherin's spells were more powerful, his tactics more successful and his spells more varied. The blond embodied all of Neville's fears. If the Child of Prophecy could not even defeat a fellow fifth year in a duel, how could he defeat the Dark Lord? And to Neville's frustration, the Slytherins unlike the rest of the school, realised this and viewed him as a failure. This drove Neville to even more reckless attacks on the members of that House which he invariably lost, and in turn caused them to look at him with even more derision. It was a vicious circle that Neville recognised, but could not escape.


	8. Divination! What Was I Thinking?

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.

Chapter 8.

Harry awoke early the next morning, as soon as sunlight began filtering through the net curtains. His quarters were quite small; just a bedroom, bathroom and a simple sitting room with bookshelves lining one wall and a worn sofa and chair in a corner. There was no kitchen, since teachers were expected to eat in the Great Hall. The rooms were nice, Harry supposed, with high ceilings and spectacular views of the distant grounds - they were at the top of the North Tower, near the Divination class room. They felt bare and unwelcoming though.

Throughout his time at Hogwarts and later his Quidditch career, Harry had slowly built up a collection of photos, books and objects which were important to him. Most were presents from friends, some of whom had died in the war, and reminded him of the happy memories he had shared with the people close to him. In this universe, however, he had nothing. Harry missed the comforting familiarity of his surroundings in his old house in Godric's Hollow. Looking around his new bedroom, devoid of any personal touches, Harry felt very alone. Despite his rather large inheritance and Quidditch earnings, Harry had always preferred to keep his older possessions rather than buying new ones. He supposed this was a remnant of his life with the Dursleys, who refused to buy him anything, or due to the fact that, after the fear and desperation of his fight with Voldemort, mere material possessions lost most of their importance. Harry had never felt the urge to buy expensive robes and ostentatious furnishings to show off his status. Godric's Hollow had been warm and cosy, somewhere Harry could finally call home. Photos of his parents and his time at Hogwarts hung on the walls, smiling and waving at him, while friends often dropped in for a cup of tea or a broom race.

As Harry lay in his new four-poster bed - unwilling to get up and start the day, but also unable to fall back asleep – he was struck by an overwhelming feeling of isolation.

Harry had no friends here, not even his beloved owl Hedwig, to keep him company. He did not have anything to remind him of his old life. This world was similar to his old one, but also painfully different. He had not seen any sign of Ron last night at the welcoming feast, and while he had managed to catch a glimpse of Hermione, she had seemed very different to his Hermione. She was in Gryffindor, true, but had not interacted much with her fellow students, instead dividing her time between frowning in disapproval and reading a typically thick textbook. She had not seemed confident, or happy. Harry knew Hermione had always felt that she had to prove herself in some way, but because of their close friendship as 'the Golden Trio' she had relaxed and become more comfortable in her place in the magical world. In such a world as this one, where the divide between Pureblood and Muggleborn was larger than ever, Harry could easily see Hermione become obsessed with schoolwork as the only way of reassuring herself that she was not inferior.

Harry had also been struck by how young his past year mates seemed. Due to the war the students were more serious and mature, but they were still over two years younger than Harry. Most of them, while understanding the severity of the war, had probably never fought against Deatheaters in person. Neville especially seemed surprisingly childish for the supposed Child of Prophecy. After some thought, however, Harry thought he understood why. This world's Neville Longbottom had grown up cared for and shielded by his parents. According to the many articles in the Daily Prophet, he had been attacked on quite a few occasions, but he had never been forced to fight alone. Voldemort had never infiltrated the school in order to seize the philosopher's stone, nor had the Chamber of Secret's ever been opened. The Triwizard Tournament never took place, and Neville never had to duel Voldemort in an old abandoned graveyard surrounded by Deatheaters, relying only on himself. Despite the escalating war that had stretched over two decades, Neville had grown up protected and no doubt a bit spoiled.

The Neville Harry knew was strong, and a very capable wizard. His timidity had slowly given way during fifth year, and he had become a powerful fighter and good friend. Harry had been grateful for his support during the many battles against the Dark Lord. His counterpart, however, appeared to be less prepared for a true fight.

One meal's observation was not enough to form a definite opinion, though, and in any case Harry was not responsible for the Saviour's training. Harry had already decided to interfere politically in this world, and hopefully assist the order in their skirmishes with the Dark forces, but he was still not convinced that he had to play any larger role than that. Neville had the Order and Dumbledore to advise him and ensure that he was capable of defending himself, and an unknown Divination teacher would hardly be allowed to get too close to him.

As Harry finally left the warmth of his bed and blearily stumbled into and out of the shower before haphazardly searching through his rather meagre wardrobe to find a suitable robe, he found it hard to feel much concern over Neville, or Voldemort or the war in general. For him the war had ended over a year ago, and without a direct reminder he found it hard to truly believe the situation he found himself in. Harry had never done well with theory, he was much better at hands-on practical work.

-------------------------------------------

"So, class, um, why don't you all settle down so we can get started?"

Harry cursed his stumbling words and the clearly uncertain tone present in his voice. Early on in his seven years education at Hogwarts he had become familiar with the different approaches the Professors had to teaching. McGonagall used a stern and no-nonsense approach to maintain order during her classes, whereas Snape used the more offensive tactics of sarcasm and intimidation to terrorize his students into submission. Flitwick was so infectiously good-natured that he seemed to exude a permanent Cheering Charm, and his subject was sufficiently interesting as to capture the attention of even the most disruptive Gryffindor or Slytherin. Hagrid's likable nature endeared him to many students, while the rest were too busy evading the lethal claws or fangs or random magical abilities of the invariably dangerous creatures they were studying. Trelawney deviously drugged her students with incense to ensure, if not their interest and cooperation, then at least their inability to care enough to create a disturbance, while Binns had remained oblivious and simply bored the class into a mindless stupor.

Harry knew all this, and could not deny the effectiveness of the different techniques. He found himself unable, however, to put these observations to good use, and could not prevent himself from retreating to a tentative manner of speaking. Confronted with the fourteen-year-old Hufflepuff students who were either ominously giggling and shooting glances at him, or were desperately scribbling answers to homework they should have finished weeks ago, Harry wondered why in the name of Merlin and Morgana he had thought himself qualified to teach his worst subject to a bunch of teenagers. The familiar dear-in-the-headlights sensation he normally only felt when faced with a particularly forceful fan-girl, was slowly threatening to overwhelm him.

He cleared his throat once more before repeating his earlier suggestion in a slightly more definite tone of voice.

"Quiet, please."

Surprisingly, the students all looked up and blinked inquisitively at him. Apparently the interest generated by a new teacher was enough to dampen the need of the average teenager to wreak havoc as soon as they sensed weakness. Harry smiled nervously, before picking up a role of parchment from his desk.

"Right, I need to call the register before we start the lesson."

Harry thankfully went through the simple motions of reading the list of names, only occasionally struggling with pronunciation.

"Aaron Aran?"

"Here," replied a rather sullen looking boy seated at a table in the back. Harry supposed he was fed-up with the evident lack of imagination displayed by his parents. He looked down at the next name on the list, raising an eyebrow in bemusement.

"Margaret Andromache Nigel Persephone Gwendolyn Catherine Cuthbert," Harry called out in one breath.

"It's just Maggie," replied a pig-tailed girl in the front row at once. The class tittered appreciatively.

"It's tradition in my family to name a baby after a relative," little Maggie continued defensively, seeming to feel the need to explain herself, "but after Auntie Annie accidentally pushed Grandpa Nigel out the window during a fight over who got to be my namesake, Mum just decided to name me after all our female relatives. Plus Grandpa," she added after a short pause, "to cheer him up, cos he broke his leg."

"Oh," Harry said, somewhat at a loss. He decided to forgo a more eloquent answer, and instead continued valiantly on. Luckily the next few names were less unusual, at least for purebloods. He vaguely recognised Frederick Finch-Fletchley as the younger brother of an old schoolmate, Justin, while another boy closely resembled a Slytherin, Lucas de Lusignan, who had been in the year above Harry. Harry wondered if the Slytherin, who had joined Voldemort immediately after finishing school, existed in this universe - and if so, how the rather vicious boy felt about his brother being an innocent young Hufflepuff.

Harry almost gave up at the Irish "Roisin Ni Ciomh," but the girl seemed used to her name being mangled beyond recognition and simply called out "Present" as soon as he had hesitantly intoned the first few syllables as "Roy-sin". The end was soon in sight, and the list finished with "Eilidh Urquhart" and "Reginald Tiberius Vandal".

By the time Harry had discarded the parchment on his already cluttered desk, he felt a lot calmer as he regarded the small sea of faces in front of him. He was grateful that McGonagall, who was in charge of drawing up the timetables, had been merciful enough to give him Hufflepuffs as a first class. Loyal and hardworking, they were also as a rule the friendliest students. Or the puny pushovers, as not-so-friendly members of other Houses declared them to be. As Harry stood before the good-natured and attentive class, he regretted every derogatory remark he had ever uttered against their House.

"Okay, we'll first start with a short revision of what you should have covered last year," Harry said briskly, feeling his confidence returning to him. "First the most basic question; what is the difference between Seeing and Divining?"

Dead silence.

Harry looked hopefully around the classroom, but all the students seemed to have developed an absorbing interest in their wooden desks, the ceiling, or the view of the distant lake from the tower window.

"Anyone?"

The fourth years continued to studiously avoid his gaze.

"Surely you couldn't have forgotten _everything _you learnt last year," he asked desperately. Even Ron, with whom he had often spent happy hours predicting his gruesome death by a rampaging flobberworm or abduction by aliens from outer space, knew the difference between the two techniques. Trelawney had, at least, taught them that much. "Miss Cuthbert, would you care to make an educated guess?"

The hapless Hufflepuff shifted in her seat, shooting glances at her neighbours in the hope of inspiration. Finding none, she was forced to hesitantly formulate an answer herself.

"Well, Seeing is where you, um see things..." she trailed off, realising the pointlessness of this statement, before heroically continuing. "Divining is more like guesswork, I guess."

She finally gave up, relapsing into embarrassed silence.

Harry felt the beginnings of a headache come on.

"What, exactly, did you learn last year?" he inquired of the class in general.

Aaron Aran half-heartedly raised his hand in the air before answering.

"We read our book," he said, helpfully gesturing to 'Unfogging the Future' that lay in front of him. "And we drank a lot of tea."

"So you learnt how to tell the future by reading tea-leaves," Harry clarified.

"Well, no," replied a dark-haired boy sitting on the right. "We just drank the tea."

"Well, what _else _did you do," demanded Harry impatiently.

The students shared glances before de Lusignan took it upon himself to answer.

"Trelawney... I mean Professor Trelawney, described her séance with the Fates and the use of her mystic powers, which enlightened her Inner Eye and allowed her to intone the Prophecy which will decide the outcome of the fearsome battle between Light and Dark," he recited, as if rehearsed.

"No," disagreed another student. "She clearly told us about her struggle with her spiritual magic, and her heroic achievement of bringing hope to the Light."

"Same thing," shrugged de Lusignan.

"Didn't she mention something about wandering the Underworld? I'm sure she mentioned the ancient god Hades at some point. Or was it Zeus?" said a red-haired girl who was probably called Anne Harroway.

"No, it was the Spirit of Merlin, I'm sure," argued Aran.

Harry watched in consternation as the class described ever more fanciful and conflicting stories. It seemed that Trelawney had a very different approach to teaching in this world, or else the Hufflepuffs were being uncharacteristically devious and were lying through their teeth.

"Exactly what prophecy are you talking about?" asked Harry, raising his voice over the babble. Silence fell immediately, as they all stared at him in astonishment.

"The Prophecy about the defeat of the Dark Lord, of course," said Maggie Cuthbert as if it were completely obvious.

"Yeah, the one that says that Neville Longbottom is Saviour of the Magical World," said de Lusignan. "And the muggle world," he added as an afterthought.

Harry finally understood. It seemed that in this world, not only was the Prophecy made public, but also the identity of the Seer. Considering the delusional behaviour of Trelawney even when she had never knowingly made an accurate prediction, it followed that she would cling to the one Prophecy that the whole world believed in, and her teaching would become even more outrageous as a result.

"Right, well I think you'll find my style of teaching rather different. Quills and parchment out everyone. Take notes, as this will most definitely turn up in your OWL exams."

Harry paused for the usual grumbling complaints and rustling of bags before continuing, glancing down at his own note on the desk in front of him.

"There are many different methods of foretelling the future. Sight, Divination and Prophecy are the most important."

"There's a difference?" interrupted Maggie Cuthbert in obvious surprise.

"Yes," Harry affirmed. "The term Seeing is used when one consciously receives a clear vision of the future. A medium, such as a crystal ball, is often involved but with a clear enough Inner Eye none is needed. The images received by a Seer always come to pass, but often in unexpected ways. Very few wizards and witches are gifted with the Sight, and it takes a lot of skill to correctly interpret what one Sees.

"Divining is a form of skilful guesswork. Through mediums such as tarot cards and tea leaves one receives a vague impression or symbol of the future, which can be interpreted by practise and knowledge of the different methods. Palmistry, dream interpretation and astrology also fall under this category. Since it is so imprecise and difficult to properly predict the future, Divination is often referred to as an Art. Most wizards are capable of divining the near and personal future, and therefore it is this method that we will be focusing on in these lessons. Only those of you who are very talented, however, will be able to divine events many years in the future. Most of you will be limited to small, personal things such as meeting a stranger or losing a possession.

"As for Prophecy; well, not much is known on this subject. One can be a true Seer without ever becoming a Prophet, and vice versa; a Prophet does not always have the gift of the Inner Eye. From what little evidence there is, it can be deduced that prophecies come unbidden and often the Seer is unaware that they have spoken one. Some claim that prophets are chosen by the Fates to deliver a warning of the future; a mere mouthpiece, if you will, and no skill is required at all. The most famous Prophet in history, Cassandra of Troy, was rumoured to be able to prophesise on demand but otherwise Prophets seem to have no control over their powers. Other well known Prophets, or Visionaries, are Joan of Arc and the Oracle of Delphi. Prophecies detail an important event that will decide the future of the world. In fact, they could be said to directly influence the course of the future since once a prophecy is heard the actions of those involved often change."

Harry continued to lecture, often glancing down at his own notes to reassure himself that he was not talking nonsense. The Hufflepuffs dutifully wrote down the main facts, and appeared to be quite interested in the definitions, as this was supposedly the first proper lesson they'd ever had concerning the subject. Once the bell signalling the end of class rang, Harry had covered a sufficient amount and answered enough relatively intelligent questions to feel quite confident in his teaching abilities. Once the loudly chattering and inattentive Gryffindor third-years arrived, however, Harry quickly revised this opinion.

--------------------------------

"Merlin, spare me," groaned Harry as he collapsed in the staff room after his first morning of teaching. The few professors who had managed to retreat to the safety of the room after the usual chaos of the beginning of school looked up from their various activities, which seemed to involve an impromptu picnic while haphazardly marking summer homework.

"Bad first day?" sympathised Vera Hooch, putting aside her quidditch magazine. As the flight instructor she was one of the few teachers who never had any marking to do, something that she seemed to delight in reminding the other teachers of at every opportunity.

"Dreadful," moaned Harry, gratefully accepting a glass of pumpkin juice from McGonagall. "The third years are hopeless and the fourth years don't even have a basic knowledge of the Art."

"So they don't have the Inner Eye," said Remus with a slight smirk.

"The Gryffindors wouldn't stop giggling," complained Harry, ignoring the older man. "And one girl professed herself to be a Seer, but her so-called Vision was iffy at best."

"Well, Seeing does involve a lot of guesswork," pointed out Sinistra reasonably.

"Not true Sight," said Harry firmly. "It's only in Divination when you start using tarot cards and candle flames that it starts becoming pure imagination."

"Don't know much about it myself," shrugged Hooch, sipping a cup of coffee.

"Well, their former teacher must have been useless. The Ravenclaw fifth years knew more than any of the other classes, but that's not saying much. They all babbled on about Mars meaning they'll fight with their best friend, and a funny shaped blob in a teacup apparently means the Apocalypse is coming."

"Professor Trelawney was…eccentric," grinned Sinistra.

"But I thought they were the standard methods of Divination," said Hooch curiously.

"Yes, but they've got it all mixed up," explained Harry, who had done a lot of reading on the subject and remembered his own lessons with Firenze. "The planets do not reveal petty, everyday details, and coffee dregs will only ever show you who you personally will meet next week, to take one example. Mars being bright means that an important war is either imminent or in the process of being fought. Any centaur will tell you that if they stop talking in riddles for five seconds."

"Yeah, they're never much help, are they?" agreed Sinistra, conjuring up some cake for herself. "Who did you learn from?"

"My grandmother," lied Harry. "She was a seer herself; not a very strong one though."

"What school did you go to?" asked Remus politely, setting aside a ragged piece of parchment covered in red corrections.

"Can't tell you, sorry," said Harry apologetically. "My family is in hiding, completely underground."

"I'm surprised you wanted to leave then," remarked Hooch. "You must have been quite safe."

"Yes, it was difficult getting everyone to consent to let me come," agreed Harry. "I even pretended to have a vision saying that I would come to no harm, but I don't think they bought it. I'll have to roll my eyes a bit more next time."

Harry grinned. Making up an alter ego was fun.

"Yes, but why did you leave and come to Hogwarts of all places," Remus persisted.

"I have visions that are mostly fixated on Voldemort," explained Harry, sighing. "Hogwarts is the only place where I can notify people of them and still be protected from the wrath of the Dark Lord."

Harry wasn't sure if he was still connected with Voldemort in this universe, but decided to use his previous experiences as an excuse for his presence anyway. A good lie often had a basis in truth. And this way he could use his knowledge of his old world to advise the Order of the Phoenix without too much suspicion cast on him.

"Oh," was all Remus could say in return, obviously unsure of how to take this unexpected declaration.

"Well," said Harry cheerfully, standing up. "I'm off to my next class; hopefully they won't be quite so obnoxious."

"Good luck," offered Hooch.

"Thanks, I'll need it."

"I must admit," McGonagall said once he'd left. "He's not what I expected."

"No," nodded Sinistra. "He actually seems to possess the Sight."

"Maybe," frowned McGonagall, which for her was a huge concession.


	9. Author's note

To the Reader:

I am sorry for not posting up chapter 9 yet, but my school work is really hectic this year, so it will be a while before I post anything up. Therefore, my proposal is this: please read other fanfics for a while and then around December when I have my Winter break, I will immediately post the new chapter up right away. Please be understanding, and also, if you guys did not see any new chapters by then, you have my permission to sent flames, threats, insults, etc. to kick my brain into action and stop me for being a lazy bum.

Thank you for reading this.


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